


At the Edge of Hope

by xsnarksthespot



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fist Fights, Fluff and Smut, Jaegers, Kissing, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, OT3 is very OT3, Porthos Whump, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:59:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 33,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1827214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsnarksthespot/pseuds/xsnarksthespot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pacific Rim AU.  Porthos fled the Pan Pacific Defense Corps after Charon died while they were still in the drift together. Guilt-ridden and terrified he'd get Athos and Aramis killed in the new jaeger that's been built specifically for the three of them, he stays gone for over a year until Treville finds him working the wall and explains how bad things have gotten.  Coming back means possibly risking the two men he cares about more than anything. That is, if he can get them to forgive him for leaving in the first place.</p><p>
  <i>Everything’s changed.  He can’t go back. He can’t drift with the two men he respects more than his own life. Not now. Not when his head is full of Charon’s torment and venom.  Not when his own terror, his <i>guilt</i>, is so all encompassing that it feels as if it’s replaced the current of his blood completely.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Grief is a Freight Train

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, I'm addicted to AUs for this show. I'll be playing fast and loose with Pacific Rim canon, just as an fyi.
> 
> I don't normally like to post anything unfinished but I keep adding scenes to this and thinking up more so I'm just going to post what I have. There are a minimum of 4 more scenes I've got planned out, with a lot more drama and potentially some smut, if I can talk myself into writing it, soooo. Yeah. I'll change the rating and/or tags as I go.
> 
> (Prologue title from Freight Train by Sara Jackson-Holman.)

Machines loom at Porthos’ bedside, noisily monitoring his vitals. 

Occasionally, the constant ache in his chest and ribs sharpens to the point where he blinks back tears, but then there’s a beep not longer after, and it’s followed by a wave of numbing morphine. He knows he’s lucky there’s still enough medical supplies diverted to the Pan Pacific Defense Corps to save his sorry life and keep his pain at bay.

But he doesn’t feel very lucky.

Charon’s fear and pain still ricochet through his head. His helpless scream as Knifehead ripped him from the Conn-Pod. His _fury_ just before the link cut off in an excruciating stab of pain and then there was nothing. Nothing but Porthos’ own agony and a raging monster to kill.

In his last moments, Charon hated Porthos. For dragging Charon into the program in the first place. For insisting on this one last mission before Porthos joined Athos and Aramis in a new jaeger built just for them and Charon processed out on a general discharge. For demanding they go to the Ace Intrepid’s aid after Athos and Aramis’ jaeger was unexpectedly left powerless mid-fight.

He hated him for being the kind of man who put himself willingly into the path of danger with no “real” reward beyond the gratitude of those they protect.

He hated him and he died violently. And it’s all that Porthos can do now not to replay that scene in his head over and over and over again.

It should have been him.

Aramis shifts in the chair beside the bed, his chaotic hair brushing against Porthos’ forearm where he rests his head. Athos is in a chair on the other side, sleeping fitfully against an unforgiving monitor. Porthos’ heartbeat flickers unevenly across the screen, the shadow of it painted across the stoic ranger’s unconscious face. 

It’s unclear if they’ve left his side in the three days since he took control of the Grizzly Moonlight, blasted a hole through Knifehead’s gaping maw, and solo-piloted the jaeger to the closest shoreline to collapse in a heap of useless metal. His memories after that are scattered at best.

The I.V. in his free arm pulls awkwardly as he reaches over himself to bury his trembling fingers into Aramis’ hair. Aramis murmurs his name sleepily, or at least something close enough to it that the injured ranger sighs and pushes wayward curls back from where they’ve fallen across his friend’s’ forehead.

He isn’t completely cursed. They’re alive, and apparently as unhurt as Porthos could hope for.

That, in itself, is enough to give him a measure of comfort.

But his heart still aches. Everything’s changed. He can’t go back. He can’t drift with the two men he respects more than his own life. Not now. Not when his head is full of Charon’s torment and venom. Not when his own terror, his _guilt_ , is so all encompassing that it feels as if it’s replaced the current of his blood completely.

Not when they’ll know he’s incapable of being the man they need him to be.

He waits until a nurse forces them both to go take showers and eat something that isn’t commandeered jello before he slips out of the hospital wing. It’s easily the most cowardly thing he’s ever done in his life. But he knows if he stays, if he tries to explain, they won’t hear it. 

Worse, they’ll convince him to stay.

And he can’t be the reason they die. He _won’t_ fail them, too.

It’s a month of running later before Porthos realises he’s done the unforgivable and this sad excuse of a life - away from them, away from everything that _matters_ \- is a far worse punishment than he could’ve ever dreamt up for himself.


	2. Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos comes back to the Shatterdome.

There’s a chopper on the helipad when the Ace Intrepid is docked into holding. 

It’s not an unusual occurrence, and Aramis is exhausted from fighting a category three kaiju off the coast of Vietnam anyway, so he exits the Conn-Pod with no plan beyond climbing into his rack for a few hours. Well, peeling off his armour and then climbing into his rack for a few hours.

Athos limps after him, stubbornly quiet. 

Aramis revises his plan: see to his friend’s pain and _then_ get undressed and collapse into his bunk. 

Hopefully, the look on his face says he’s not in the mood to talk until he feels human again. Most everyone in the program has learned to give them both space after missions over the last year, but there’s the occasional brave soul who’s either too green or too adrenaline-drunk to steer clear.

He doesn’t _mean_ to look towards the chopper at all, but mild curiosity gets the better of him before he can leave the hangar. 

Athos bumps awkwardly into his back when Aramis abruptly stops walking. The taciturn ranger makes an irritated noise, but he clamps a hand on Aramis’ shoulder and follows his gaze out towards the helipad all the same.

Shock keeps them both frozen there for a good minute of silence. Eventually, Aramis exhales the breath he’s been holding and Athos loosens his grip.

“Did Treville--”

“No,” Athos snaps. It’s only one word, but it’s easy for Aramis to decipher what’s left unsaid. No, Treville didn’t tell him that he’d succeeded in recovering a wayward pilot, where previous attempts had failed. 

No, Treville definitely _did not_ warn him that Porthos was coming home.

Aramis nods mindlessly, because his focus is zeroed in on the man listening closely to Treville over the loud whir of helicopter blades. He looks worn. Older. Older even than the fourteen months and eleven days since they saw him last can account for. There are dirt smudges on his neck and face. His beard desperately needs a trim. He's lost weight. The ragged coat he’s wearing is too big, even for those broad shoulders, and it’s clear he’s wearing an assortment of carelessly chosen layers underneath.

He looks terrible.

And yet, Aramis feels as if his heart is trying to pound its way out of his chest, all too eager to fling itself at Porthos’ feet some hundred yards away.

A year of heartsickness clashes with the urge to go to him. To pound across the cement, bury his face in that godawful coat and breath him in.

Aramis doesn’t need a neural handshake to know that Athos is struggling against a similar instinct.

Porthos turns his head towards them, as if he feels the weight of their stares. Surprise flashes across his face, and then a dozen emotions too fast to read at this distance, before weary resolve settles into place. Noticing Porthos' distraction, Treville glances over his shoulder at them as well.

Aramis opens his mouth to say something - he isn't sure what, or if he can even catch his breath long enough to shout across the distance - but Athos shifts his grip to Aramis' neck without warning and jerks him towards the exit leading to the rest of the complex.

"I need you to take a look at my knee."

"Athos..."

"I need a medic and you need sleep." 

There's a pause full of more unspoken words than Athos has probably ever said out loud.

"Please, Aramis...This can wait."

They're almost to the inner bay doors before Aramis finally takes a full breath. He leans into Athos, mindlessly reaching for the stubbornness he needs to stop himself from looking back over his shoulder. _This can wait_. Can it, though? The chance that Porthos might vanish again, that choosing their own health, even temporarily, might be the last choice they ever make where their third is concerned, is a painful thought digging its claws into his brain with each step, but Aramis straightens his shoulders and trudges on.

He musters up a grim smile. "All right, then, old man. Let’s have a look at that knee.”


	3. Awkward Meal Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First meal in the chow hall after Porthos comes back to the Shatterdome.

Trays clatter against tables in the chow hall, mingling with the sounds of dozens of people talking amongst themselves. 

Athos grimaces as the headache behind his eyes reminds him that he’s an idiot. Alcohol is hard to come by and against the rules, even when a piloting team is far down the day roster, but he still pissed away his money on a contraband bottle of Johnnie Walker Red the night before. Aramis helped him finish it, but only just.

He tries to muster up some regret, but fails for the most part. His bandaged knee protests as he drops himself down onto a bench, half empty tray on the table in front of him.

Aramis slides in next to him with a little more grace and a lot less grumbling.

"You should have let me stop at medical. You need anti-inflammatories, if nothing else," Aramis lectures quietly.

Athos makes a noncommittal noise and forces himself to take a bite of scrambled eggs. They're tasteless. Spongy. But, he imagines even real eggs would taste like shit to him right now.

“Later,” he mumbles around a mouthful of food. Aramis rolls his eyes and nonchalantly scoops some of his hash over onto Athos’ tray when he notices how empty it is. 

Before Athos can mutter a complaint about mother-henning, the noise level in the room drops noticeably and both men turn their heads towards the source of the change. Porthos is exiting the chow line, carrying a tray. His back is stubbornly straight, but he doesn’t make eye contact with anyone until he’s nearly halfway across the room. Only then does his gaze lift and zero in with precision on their table.

Aramis tenses next to him and Athos spares him a brief glance. He knows of the two of them, Aramis has more heart left to risk. Athos is self-aware enough to know he’s already given all of his, and there’s no going back. But he suspects he could still hurt quite a bit more if they don’t work this out between them eventually. 

Still, he scoots closer to Aramis in his inept way of offering support and is grateful to see his friend relax into the press of his shoulder.

When Athos forces his stony gaze back across the room, Porthos drops his eyes to his tray and then unceremoniously hands it off to an engineer who’s just entered the hall. In a blink, he weaves his way out of the room without a word to anyone.

The noise level returns to normal before Athos realises he’s halfway risen from his seat, with Aramis right along beside him. They share a self-deprecating glance. To chase after him or not to chase after him, that is the question. 

Aramis sits back down first, frowning. Athos follows his lead, for once.

Breakfast is a quiet affair after that, but their shoulders remain flush together until they reluctantly head towards the Kwoon combat room, as they were previously ordered to by a harried-looking Treville.

Aramis hooks an arm around Athos’ neck as they walk. “We should have saved some of that whisky,” he sighs, dramatically enough that Athos can’t help but flash a small, tight smile.

“We’re not that smart.”


	4. Drift Incompatible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville tries to find Porthos a new co-pilot. It goes about as badly as Porthos warned him it would.

Porthos bears his latest opponent to the ground, unintentionally knocking the wind out of the poor kid. 

“Sorry about that,” he mumbles, holding a hand out. The novice ranger takes the offered help and manages a sportsmanlike smile as he catches his breath.

Maybe he hasn’t heard any of the rumours yet. Either way, Porthos gratefully spares him the ghost of a grin and claps an encouraging hand on the kid’s back. 

“McCallaghan,” Treville barks and the next round begins. It ends much the same as the first, only the female ranger gets a point before Porthos sweeps her legs out from under her and scores his last.

Three more rounds move by in a blur. Porthos has hardly broken a sweat. He turns to Treville with raised eyebrows and waits.

“This isn’t working,” the Marshal mutters, unnecessarily. There isn’t a body in the room that isn’t completely aware that none of the candidates here are drift compatible with Porthos. Most rangers are lucky to find one person they can drift with fairly well. Porthos has had _three_ \- two of which were so eerily well-matched that they’d built a bloody jaeger to suit the trio perfectly. 

A jaeger that was never used and is still collecting dust in the Shatterdome even now, Porthos discovered during his sleepless first night back. Why they haven’t torn it apart and recycled the pieces is beyond his understanding, but he finds himself relieved in a way he can’t put into words.

Thankfully, no one’s really talking to him except for Treville, so he hasn’t had to bother trying.

“I told you this was a waste of time, Marshal,” Porthos murmurs as he steps up in front of his mentor and rests his hands over the end of his bo staff.

“Maybe that’s the problem,” Treville counters curtly. “You’re closed off. You’re _battling_. And you know that’s not how this goes.” He shoots a tired look towards Athos and Aramis, who are holding up a corner of the room with stiff shoulders and occasionally whispering to each other.

Porthos hasn’t looked at them. But then, he’s doesn’t have to. He can feel them like a weight at his back. Like a pair of industrial-sized magnets. The pull is just as strong now as it ever was, if not _worse_.

“Sir, you and I both knew goin’ into this that the chance of me findin’ another match was slim to none.” Porthos steps closer, respectfully tempering his voice, but his inner turmoil is still shouting from the depths of his dark eyes. “I agreed to come back because things are gettin’ worse and it was the right thing to do. But that doesn’t mean I’m meant to be a pilot. I could be just as useful doin’ repairs…”

Shaking his head, Treville narrows his eyes into slits. “I need you in a jaeger.” He lifts his eyebrows meaningfully. “Talk to them. Fix this.”

“I...sir--” Porthos snaps backwards a step like he’s been punched in the gut. “ _This_ isn’t--this might not _be_ fixable, Marshal,” he hisses in a pained whisper. There’s a stirring behind his back now, as the pilots and looky-loos start to murmur amongst each other. He’s been gone for over a year, but half the people in this room know the circumstances of his departure.

How he _abandoned his post_ , Porthos mentally revises.

Treville pays no interest to them, however. His attention is only for Porthos, and that steady gaze is disarmingly patient where Porthos still expects to see contempt. “You’ve done the hard part, ranger. You’re here. Now I need you to go the rest of the way. _They_ need you.” 

Shame and regret sweep across Porthos’ face, but there’s a wistfulness there too, beneath the layers of his frown. 

“They haven’t been the same since, Porthos. And I need all of you at your best. I have a very expensive piece of machinery out there that needs three of my most experienced pilots in the cockpit.” Treville curls his fingers over Porthos’ shoulder. “Talk to them. And make it fast.”


	5. Touch-Starved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d'Artagnan catches up with Porthos for a _mostly_ angst-less reunion.

d’Artagnan is not the wisest of men. Impulsive, yes. Bullheaded, absolutely. And he can manage a fleet of jaegers in his sleep, so there’s that.

But initiating a surprise attack on the notoriously strong friend he hasn’t seen in a year isn’t the best use of his brain cells. 

“ _Porthos_ , it’s _me_ ,” d’Artagnan croaks, eyes wide. The forearm pressing against his windpipe and the unyielding wall at his back make it difficult to force out those few words, but Porthos still makes a startled noise and releases him quickly enough.

“Bloody hell, d’Artagnan. I could’ve killed you just now.”

“Right here in the hallway? That hardly seems likely,” d’Artagnan smirks.

There’s a moment of silence, filled by d’Artagnan staring at Porthos and Porthos staring at a harmless spot on the man’s shoulder, but the second the ranger makes eye contact, d’Artagnan grins brightly and pulls him into an unselfconscious hug. All the tension leaks out of Porthos like water spilling from a glass. d’Artagnan laughs when the larger man caves into the embrace and practically lifts him off the ground in his attempt to return it with enthusiastic force. 

He hugs like he’s touch-starved.

“Oof. You might break me still, though, Porthos…,” d’Artagnan reluctantly warns.

“Fuck, sorry.” Porthos lets go and steps back, shuffling a hand through his curls. His eyes are still bright and a helpless smile twitches at his expressive mouth. “Maybe if you weren’t still so bloody _thin_ \--”

“Hey! You’re one to talk. You’ve lost at least a stone,” d’Artagnan balks, punching Porthos lightly in the gut. The ranger rumbles quiet laughter and massages his “wound”. 

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t laying around the command center with my feet up.” Despite the fact that he delivers the joke with a wink, Porthos immediately looks contrite. “I...forget I said that, yeah? That wasn’t right, even as a joke,” he mumbles.

d’Artagnan squints. Porthos has rarely felt the need to withdraw a taunt. That he’s compelled to now makes d’Artagnan’s chest ache. Clapping a hand on Porthos’ shoulder, he leans in with a gentle smile.

“I’ll have you know, I’m still the best j-tech chief there ever was, even _with_ my feet up on the console.” His smile turns cocky and Porthos barks a laugh, visibly relieved. “I saw you didn’t have much luck in the kwoon today,” d’Artagnan adds, not without kindness.

Sighing, Porthos heaves a shrug and says nothing.

“So. Are you going to do something about it?”

Porthos tenses and lifts an eyebrow slowly at this, but still doesn’t comment.

“I just saw Athos a minute ago. Headed for his room...” d’Artagnan ventures cautiously.

“Christ. Did the Marshal send you?” Porthos grimaces and rubs a hand over the back of his neck as he glances down the hall in the direction of Athos and Aramis’ room.

“ _Please_. I don’t need to be ordered to be a persistent pain in the arse. It’s a _natural_ talent, thank you very much.”

The ranger snorts. “Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”

Without missing a beat, d’Artagnan smirks and says, “Constance and I are getting married. Flea’s the maid of honour.” While Porthos is absorbing that news bomb with a giddy, slow dawning grin, d’Artagnan flashes a moon-eyed smile of his own. “You should see them pilot a jaeger together, Porthos. It’s a bloody _work of art_.” 

Next he knows, Porthos is crushing him in another hug and swinging him out into the hallway. “Easy, you brute! I’d like to be able to _walk_ down the aisle!” he laughs breathlessly.

Porthos is still grinning madly when he lowers d’Artagnan to the ground. “Bloody hell, pup. Congratulations! I always knew she’d realise that husband of hers was a shitheel, but that you managed not to cock it up in the meantime is damn good news.” 

“Yeah, yeah...thanks,” d’Artagnan smirks and rolls his eyes. “Now, about _not cocking things up_...”

“Good God, man. You’re relentless.”

“And to think I’m only just getting started.”

Porthos exhales loudly and rallies a grim set of his mouth that’s probably supposed to be a smile. d’Artagnan only lifts his eyebrows stubbornly.

“I’m...gonna do what I can, alright? Just give it a rest.”

It’s about as much as d’Artagnan suspected he’d get, so he accepts his win with a decidedly ungracious nod. 

“I’ll take it. _For now_.” Nudging him with a shoulder, d’Artagnan gestures down the hall with his chin. “Come on. If I don’t take you to the girls, Flea’ll have my head. And then Constance will destroy whatever’s left.”


	6. And Then There Were Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos finally seeks out Athos.

Athos should be sleeping. He’s not, but that’s nothing new. It does carry an extra dose of frustration now that he’s out of liquor. 

Sleeping would give him a break from his asinine thoughts.

Instead, he lays stretched out on the bottom bunk, arm propped beneath his head, staring at the underside of the top bunk like it’ll give him some sort of epiphany if he only concentrates hard enough. So far, all he’s figured out is that they really, _really_ need new bu--

The knock on the door startles him out of his pointless musing and he stares at the metal hatch like its a snake, coiled to strike. After a quieter, less confident, second knock, Athos finally barks, “It’s open.”

Porthos barely opens the door wide enough to squeeze inside, and he hovers close to it, even once it’s closed behind him. His eyes do a furtive dance over his surroundings, like he’s recalibrating his memories of this space.

Athos forces himself to stay exactly where he is, quirking one brow lazily at the skittish ranger.

“Athos. I--”

Whatever Porthos intends to say seems to get lodged in his throat, until he huffs out a breath and grimaces.

“...you rearranged the furniture,” he finally says.

Athos quietly snorts, in spite of himself. It’s hard to stay tense when Porthos is standing there with his shoulders awkwardly slumped and a guarded pleading in his eyes. But then, Athos doesn’t want to stay tense. 

“Jesus. Just shut up and come here,” he sighs, scooting over a little on the small bed and beckoning Porthos with a curt wave of his hand. 

Porthos only hesitates for a split second. Then he quickly climbs into the sliver of space provided, pressing in flush and burrowing his face into the crook of Athos’ neck. If that weren’t enough to warm Athos’ skin through, the quiet rumble of relief breathed against his throat does the trick. 

What little reservation he has, about letting Porthos back in, slips away with surprising speed. 

“I’m still angry with you,” Athos mutters, even as he’s moving the arm not pinned under Porthos to card his fingers into the man’s hair. “But if anyone understands running away, it’s me. I’m just glad you found your way back.”

Porthos mumbles a reply.

Smirking, Athos tugs the ranger out of the crook of his neck by the hair. “Try that again.”

“I’m sorry.”

And he looks it, too. Athos lets his gaze roam over the face resting against his shoulder, the face that’s as familiar to him as his own. There are shadows under Porthos’ eyes, but worse ones _inside_ them. The misery of the last year evolves into an empathy so strong, it steals Athos’ breath. He was never so selfish as to think all of this was only hard on him and Aramis, but having the evidence of it staring up at him from wounded brown eyes is heartache worthy, anyway.

“Me too,” he whispers.

Porthos looks like he’s about to argue, but Athos tightens his grip in the ranger’s hair and silences him with his mouth. The half-formed words on Porthos’ tongue turn into a grateful growl.

At least, Athos assumes it’s grateful, with the way Porthos digs his fingers into Athos’ hips and pulls him closer. Admittedly, it’s hard to think past the suddenly raging pulse in his throat and the heat of Porthos’ mouth. He’s half-hard in an instant, but he doesn’t have time to be embarrassed about it before Porthos rolls over on top of him and pins his hands to the mattress.

He’d almost forgotten what it was like to have all that strength used against him - _for_ him. Almost, but not quite. He greedily arches off the bed to keep the kiss intact.

Porthos squeezes his hands where they’re threaded through Athos’ fingers and grinds his hips slowly.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Athos groans, dropping his head back to the pillow.

“That’s the idea,” Porthos murmurs smirkingly in return. His mouth lowers to the stretch of neck bared below him and he licks a path from the hollow of Athos’ throat to the pulse below his jaw. Sputtering something unintelligible, Athos shakes his head.

“You know we can’t do this.”

Porthos makes a noise that may or may not be assent, but since he follows it with a light biting kiss, Athos is leaning towards _not_.

“Porthos…”

Sighing, Porthos lifts his head and squints down at Athos. 

“Aramis,” he grunts, cutting right to the point.

“Aramis.”

“And if he doesn’t forgive me as easily as you?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s Aramis.”

Doubt swims through Porthos’ eyes as he shifts off of Athos and sits on the edge of the bed, his head bowed to avoid hitting the bunk above him. Athos sits up as well, resting his palm at the base of Porthos' spine.

“He _will_ forgive you, Porthos. It just hurts him that we weren’t enough to bring you home.” Before Porthos can balk at that, as he’s clearly about to, Athos adds a quiet amendment. “I know, I know. You stayed away _for_ us. Or at least that’s what you told yourself.”

Porthos climbs to his feet, frowning down at Athos. “What I told myself?”

“I know what it is to feel like damaged goods.” Athos sighs and rolls to sit on the edge of the mattress. “But the fact is, we are less without you. In punishing yourself for your perceived past crimes, and your potential future ones, you punished _us_. You left us with an open wound.”

The heartsick frown on Porthos’ face looks as if it has been carved there just as permanently as the scar that slices through his left eye, but Athos knows that isn’t the case. He stands and clamps a hand on Porthos’ shoulder, tugging him forward until their foreheads are touching.

“I thought it was the lesser evil…,” Porthos whispers, his eyes drifting shut.

“You were wrong,” Athos responds simply. “It’s hardly the first time,” he points out, straight-faced.

Porthos snorts, smiling crookedly. It takes a moment, but eventually he straightens and lifts regretful eyes. Athos shifts his hand from Porthos’ shoulder to the back of his neck.

“Get him alone and give him those eyes, I suspect he’ll be putty in your hands,” Athos smirks, squeezing Porthos’ neck comfortingly. Porthos looks unconvinced still, but he steals a chaste kiss and turns for the door.

“Porthos…”

The larger ranger halts in the doorway and lifts his eyebrows questioningly.

“Come back this time. I’m afraid I must _insist_.”

Athos finds Porthos’ answer to be a few long strides and a bruising kiss, his jaw cradled between Porthos’ gentle hands. It unwinds the last lingering knot in his chest long before Porthos is gone and Athos realises he now has to _wait_. 

He is so very bloody sick of waiting.


	7. Like Bookends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos finds Aramis _high_ in the rafters of the Shatterdome.

The Shatterdome is never at peace, not really. Sparks are flying from somewhere down below and Aramis can hear engineers shouting to each other even from his perch, high up near the Trinity Titan’s shoulders. He’s been sitting there awhile now, but he can’t convince himself to move. 

That probably has something to do with the half-smoked joint pinched between his fingers, but that’s besides the point.

It’s a rare indulgence, and a reckless one at that, but the Ace Intrepid is still five down on the roster, so he takes another drag and holds the numbing smoke in his lungs for a long moment. The sound of heavy feet on the ladder nearby forces the smoke out through his mouth in a wheezing cough and Aramis is _just_ aware enough to wave frantically at the cloud in front of his face before the sight of Porthos climbing up onto the rafter stops him.

“Oh. It’s just you.”

Fourteen months, eleven--no, twelve days since they caught up with him in Sydney and Aramis’ first words to Porthos are _oh, it’s just you_. He can’t stop the apologetic wince that follows that realisation. Or the pathetic little laugh that tags along shortly after.

Porthos doesn’t say anything. He merely looks lost for a moment and then sits down next to Aramis, his long legs dangling over the edge of the rafter. There’s no railing, which is unfortunate. Aramis would rather not plummet to a moronically accidental death now that Porthos is here to witness it. 

There are simply some indignities that he refuses to suffer. 

A minute or two passes in silence, maybe longer. Aramis can’t be sure. All he knows for certain is that he’s starving and the Trinity Titan’s head is _huge_. Maybe it was always that big and he just didn’t notice because they never got to ride in the cursed machine. 

Well, no. There is one other thing he knows for certain. It’s a baffling fact that cements itself behind his ribcage, despite the blurred chaos of his thoughts.

Porthos still feels right. Porthos still feels like _home_.

“You gonna share that or do I have to fight you for it?”

Aramis shoots him a startled glance. Of all the things he imagined they might say if they ever saw each other again and they’ve both kicked off with ridiculous statements that were nowhere near his list of possibilities. He’s almost grateful for the joke, because it’s so achingly familiar. But the hurt sweeps back in, wiping the smile from his mouth before it really even has a chance to form.

The tentative hopefulness in Porthos’ face shatters and he closes his eyes, turning his head away.

“ _Aramis_...”

“You…are...an idiot,” Aramis announces with an absurdly exaggerated squint. 

Porthos huffs out a weak laugh, clearly surprised. “And a coward,” he counters quietly, after a sad glance in Aramis’ direction.

Tracking Porthos down in Sydney feels like ages ago and like yesterday all at the same time. Aramis remembers every word Porthos uttered. His guilt. His grief. His aching fear of failing them. Of losing them, too. All of it a festering wound, and Porthos refusing to be comforted or convinced to come back. 

Now that Porthos is here, beside him, Aramis isn’t sure who he’s more angry with: Porthos or himself.

He should have tried harder. 

He should have brought Porthos home.

“If you’re a coward, Porthos...than I am, as well,” Aramis murmurs. Reaching across the short distance between them, he wraps one warm hand around the back of Porthos’ neck and holds out the joint with the other.

The slow, crooked smile Aramis receives for his effort warms him from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. Carefully claiming the joint, Porthos takes a long drag without taking his eyes off Aramis. It’s only after he’s handed it back and exhaled a heady cloud that he finally speaks again, low and rough and shamelessly full of emotion.

“ _Fuck_ , I’ve missed you.” 

The mixture of lingering heartache and tentative hope in those few words burns clean through Aramis’ drug-induced haze. 

“I’m sorry. I know that’s not...good enough, not by half, but Christ, Aramis, I need you to know that I am so bloody _sor_ \--.”

Aramis pulls Porthos to his mouth, cutting off his apology with a crushing kiss. 

He’s unaware of the symmetry here, obviously, but it wouldn’t have surprised him to know Athos did something so similar. They’ve always been like bookends, just fine together, but undeniably missing something without Porthos to center them. Which is, of course, why his absence was so hard to bear.

Before that thought can push Aramis back into melancholy, a wrecked groan spills over Porthos’ tongue, and he buries a hand in Aramis’ hair. 

Aramis dives back into the kiss, fisting his hand into the front of Porthos’ shirt while the other remains curled around Porthos’ nape. (Later, much later, he’ll realise this is around the time that the engineers below got a surprise delivery in the shape of still lit joint, but the thought is far from his mind currently.) 

Maybe they’re lacking a little finesse at first, but Aramis really couldn’t care less. All he cares about is _more_. More of Porthos’ lips and tongue. More of his hands. More of his intoxicating warmth and those little rumbling noises he makes when he’s pleased. 

They fall backwards against the metal walkway, scrambling awkwardly away from the edge, and that word - _more_ \- is a drumbeat inside Aramis’ skull. Before he can second guess himself, he’s straddling Porthos’ hips and kissing him deeper, dragging his thumbs across Porthos’ bearded jaw.

Okay, perhaps he isn’t only thinking _more_ at this point. He would certainly appreciate _less_ clothing, but they’re on a bloody rafter, for God’s sak--

“Damn it,” Aramis hisses, pulling back to prop himself up with his hands against the steel on either side of Porthos’ head. His breath hitches out of him in uneven bursts. “We can’t do this.”

“We can’t do this _here_ ,” Porthos corrects. He punctuates the sentence by clutching Aramis’ thighs and rolling his hips upwards.

Aramis bites back a moan and tries to stay on task. “Athos--”

“Already talked to 'im.”

“...Oh, _really_?” Aramis raises one eyebrow sharply and sits up straight. Porthos laughs. Probably because he can easily read the petulant surprise in those two words.

“Don’t be jealous. I didn’t know where you were and _he_ was conveniently in your room.”

Logic be damned, Aramis still pouts slightly before his look turns suspicious. “Did he welcome you home?”

The slow smile his question earns him is infuriatingly charming. Damn him. 

“Not any more than you have. Frankly, I’m startin’ to wonder if I’ve lost my touch.”

Aramis sputters out a laugh. That Porthos would be so cheeky as to joke about such a thing, after everything, doesn’t shock Aramis nearly as much as it probably should. Climbing to his feet, Aramis towers over Porthos for a moment before finally holding out a hand.

“Come on, then, you aggravating fool. Only one way to find out.”


	8. The Calm Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The three are all back together for the first time and Porthos has to mentally prepare for their first jaeger test in the Trinity Titan.

Porthos and Aramis are walking too close and sending each other as many lingering looks as they can manage without tripping over their own feet when Treville catches up to them in the hallway. He looks so bloody relieved at the sight of them together that Porthos almost apologises for all the shit he’s put this man through. The Marshal was always good to him, even before he was confident enough to expect _anyone_ to be good to him.

“Good,” Treville nods brusquely. “And since I suspect Athos is just as awake as the two of you, we’ll do a test run in thirty minutes. _Don’t_ be late, gentleman.”

Luckily, the Marshal walks fast, so Porthos doesn’t have time to voice a childish complaint. More importantly, he doesn’t have time to panic before Aramis breaks the silence.

“Well,” Aramis sighs.

“Yeah, that about fits,” Porthos muses, his mouth curling into an exaggerated upside down u-shape.

“Doesn’t it, though?” Aramis claps him on the back, but the casual move quickly turns into him scratching his nails idly across the width of Porthos’ shoulders. A noise, entirely too close to a purr for his liking, rumbles up from Porthos’ chest.

Aramis closes his eyes briefly and a shadow passes over his handsome features.

“Aramis…?” Uncertainty wells up inside of Porthos at that flash of sadness. He starts to reach out, but drops his hand lamely at his side, instead.

“It’s all right, Porthos. I’m all right. I just...I missed you, stupid.” Even though the faint shadow of sorrow still clings to Aramis’ face, his smile is genuine, with that hint of sass that has always made Porthos want to tackle him or kiss him. Or both. It’s tempting even here, in the middle of a hallway with the occasional passerby, not like he’s ever given two fucks about anyone’s opinion on the matter, but his regrets are like a patient storm hovering at his back.

“Aramis, I need to--”

“Not here, Porthos,” Aramis interrupts quietly, dropping his hand away. Porthos would be surprised at how easily the man could still read him after a year’s absence if he weren’t so quietly grateful for the fact. “Not now,” Aramis amends. “Let’s gather our grumpy third and get suited up. Hopefully he hasn’t found himself any more alcohol. As it is, I’m glad this is just a test, because I’m still a little…” He waggles his hand in front him and grimaces.

“Quick shower and some food might help.”

“If I get in the shower, I’ll just want to bring you with me,” Aramis sighs.

Athos is mechanically doing pull-ups on a bar over the toilet’s hatchway when the two of them jostle each other through the room's door like it’s a competition. Porthos sobers, gives Athos an appreciative leer, and then stays near the exit for more reasons than the fact that he still feels like a bit of an interloper. 

“It’s about time,” Athos announces drolly as he drops to the ground and reaches for a nearby towel. “I was convinced you two were fucking in a dark corner somewhere.”

“Athos, _please_ ,” Aramis tuts. “We would never start without you. Well...not _this_ time, anyway.” He moves quickly to the lockers inset into the walls. “Treville wants to see us.”

“Test run,” Porthos murmurs distractedly. He’s had enough time to let that impending threat get the better of him, unfortunately. Charon’s final thoughts sink into the back of his brain and wait.

Anxiety must be obvious in the lines of his face because the two men on the other side of the room look first at him and then each other, before silently stalking across the room to crowd him against the door. His chin lifts defensively - _he’s fine, he’s fucking fine, he’s not going anywhere_ \- but they’re laying tender hands on him before he can say anything. Athos rests a steady hand against the side of his throat and Aramis places one on his chest, stroking gentle, calming circles over his heart.

Porthos feels his eyes drift shut as warmth radiates from those two points, only to slam into a sudden wave of shame.

“Christ,” he whispers brokenly. “I don’t--What’s wrong with the two of you?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Athos responds dryly. 

“I don’t understand either one of you.” It isn’t so much a lie as a half-truth. Porthos understands that they’re good men. The best men. Better men than he deserves. But now that the drift looms, their easy forgiveness makes him feel small and unworthy and, worst of all, afraid.

Of course, he won’t say any of that out loud. He’s full of self-doubt, but he’s not a bloody fool.

“Let’s just...let’s go and get this over with. Please,” Porthos murmurs, sweeping his hand down his chest to squeeze Aramis’ fingers, but also to gently remove the man’s hand from his chest.

Aramis frowns and fists into the fabric of Porthos’ sweater. He’s not so easily shaken off, but that's not news.

“Porthos, listen closely.” Usually Aramis’ demanding voice means good things of the filthy variety for Porthos, but he knows that’s not the case this time. Not when they’re still fully dressed and the clock is ticking, at any rate. “There is nothing, _nothing_ , in that thick skull of yours that will drive us away.” He doesn’t look at Athos for confirmation, but the stoic ranger keeps his piercing stare on Porthos and strokes a thumb over the taller ranger’s neck, so that’s confirmation enough. 

“You don’t know that. You _can’t_ know that.” Porthos can hear the desperation in his own voice and it makes his stomach turn. But panic isn’t reasonable. It’s a wad of nails in his chest. Growing, stabbing, sinking in. The best he can manage is another squeeze of Aramis’ hand on his chest and an apologetic glance at Athos. 

“But I’m not going anywhere, alright? So just, please…” 

_Stop fucking coddling the bloke who ran away from you_ is what he thinks.

“...Get your bloody armour on,” is what he says. 

Aramis frowns harder, and now he’s opening his damn mouth, but thankfully, Athos comes to Porthos’ rescue. 

Well, sort of.

“Perhaps Porthos has the right idea. We could talk about this forever and not get anywhere. But the drift...” Athos doesn’t finish the thought, but then he doesn’t really have to. If only the thought were actually _helpful_. Instead, it hollows out a space in Porthos’ chest and he pushes them both towards their lockers as kindly as he can manage.

“Yeah. What he said,” he whispers. “Now get to it. I need to...find some armour.”

Shaking his head, Aramis opens Porthos’ old locker and gives him a look that's equal parts frustrated and affectionate. “Don’t be ridiculous.” A suit of armour is tucked into the locker with everything else he left there. For a second, he's worried it's his old suit, the one he was wearing when everything fell apart, but he realizes it can't be. That suit was ruined beyond repair and this one has a design etched into the outer shoulder plate. It’s two T’s in embellished calligraphy, very Aramis, only with a sharp boldness to it that’s all Porthos. There are three simple vertical lines underneath, connected by one bisecting one. Athos’ contribution. 

Porthos blinks a little too fast. He’d shouldn’t be surprised (of course they’d expected him to come back, had been _ready_ for him to come back). But he stills feels gut-punched, anyway.

He’s not going to fucking cry about a stupid design they sketched out on a goddamn napkin one night after too many drinks. _He’s not_.

With a curt nod, he yanks off his sweater and snags a long-sleeved henley from the locker, to throw on over his t-shirt. The edges of the armour plates can dig into bare skin, especially at the elbows, he remembers that much. And the inside of the Conn-Pod is kept cold as fuck on purpose.

Somehow just getting ready is enough to quiet his mind a little. But that probably has more to do with the two men on either side of him, occasionally brushing up against him as they pull on their armour. It isn’t until they’re leaving the room and Aramis grabs him by the back of his collar that his breathing spikes again.

“Look at me.” Athos has moved on ahead in the hall, talking to an engineer passing by. “Porthos, _look at me_ ,” Aramis whispers. 

Porthos exhales loudly through his nose and shifts a guarded gaze to Aramis’ face. 

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten.” Aramis sounds especially serious and he lets the silence grow for a long moment, but there’s something in his eyes that Porthos can’t pin down, not until his next words land. 

“You still owe me sixty bucks.”

Half of Porthos’ anxiety blows away on the gust of laughter that sputters out of his mouth.

“Stop laughing, this is serious business,” Aramis deadpans. The teasing glint in his eyes is more obvious now, as he releases Porthos’ collar and heads down the hall. “I am willing to work out a barter system, however.”

Porthos simply watches him for a few seconds, enjoying the view and letting his heart settle back into place where it belongs. Finally, he shoves off on a heel and jogs a few steps to catch up.

“That better be innuendo. Last time we bartered, I had to do your fucking laundry for a month.”

“We’ll see, Porthos. _We’ll see_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a bit of a quiet chapter, but it was necessary to set up the next one, which is the opposite of quiet.
> 
> Also, I know "bucks" is an American expression, but I'm running with dollars being the most common currency in this AU, mostly because it's what I'm familiar with.


	9. Sin & Salvation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio test their jaeger for the first time. It's a rocky start, to say the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the ridiculously long wait. Life got rough and writer's block took care of the rest. For anyone who's interested, I am working on the last piece of my fake fight series, but at 7k words, it's turning into a difficult beast, so it may take a while.

“ _All aaaaboardddd._ ” 

d’Artagnan’s voice rebounds through the Conn-Pod, entirely too chipper and full of sass for a middle of the night test, as far as Athos is concerned. 

“ _Not to put any added pressure on you gentlemen, but you’ve got a bit of an audience out here - as in...well, everyone. Even Serge dragged his arse out of bed for this. Point is, try not to embarrass me._ ”

Athos glares at the inset speaker nearest to him and then shoots a glance at Porthos. Surprisingly, the ranger looks mildly amused as he steps up onto the command platform. Or maybe it’s not all that surprising. Maybe he’s settling and this won’t be as awful as they’ve all assumed.

Athos nearly kicks himself for that moment of optimism.

Instead, he turns his focus to the three rigs situated on the platform in a triangle formation, dropping his helmet on as he moves. Each rig has its own physical display and a digital HUD lights up in front of Athos as he locks himself into one on the right. 

Some of Porthos’ calm seems to take a beating, though, when he looks at the middle spot and then the left. Aramis nudges him gently with a shoulder, towards the middle rig, and flashes a small, off-kilter smile from inside his helmet.

“Maybe I should--” Porthos gestures towards the left rig.

“Maybe you should get in the middle rig where you belong?” Aramis finishes for him. “I completely agree.” He doesn’t wait for a response, just climbs up into the left rig and hooks his boots into the geared locks at his feet. A few seconds pass before Porthos squares his shoulders and clicks his helmet into place, exhaling loudly as the middle rig’s locks engage around his feet.

“ _All right, you know how this goes._ ” d’Artagnan’s voice is inside their helmets now, and he’s adjusted his tone to something much more intimate and respectful. Athos will have to thank him for that later. For now, they run through a pre-launch systems check, punching buttons on their individual displays and sliding through digital screens on the HUD with quick efficiency. Eventually, a technician has finished attaching the feedback cradle into each of their drivesuits and they’re finally alone in the Conn-Pod. 

All that’s left is a neural handshake test.

Normally, there’s no waiting around, but protocol is different for a brand new, never been tested jaeger. Athos hears Porthos’ breathing hitch just a little faster as the countdown starts.

“Initiating neural handshake in _ten_...”

“Since you are about to be in my head for the first time, I feel I should warn you,” Athos says to Porthos, over his shoulder, casually, like he’s talking about the weather. “I spent _entirely_ too many hours picturing you naked that first year.”

d’Artagnan groans melodramatically into their helmets and keeps counting down, but Aramis’ laugh rolls right over him, bright and clear. Porthos joins in, and maybe his chuckle isn’t quite up to its usual standard, but the cheekiness of his reply still warms Athos’ skin.

“Just naked? Standin’ there, twiddlin’ my thumbs?”

“Twiddling something, anyway,” Aramis cackles. If there is such a thing as blushing belligerently, Athos has mastered it. But he doesn’t regret trying to lighten the mood as d’Artagnan’s countdown breaks in past their banter.

“ _Six. As in the number of psych appointments we’re all going to need if you three keep this up. Treville is in here, for Christ’s sake._ ”

Aramis and Porthos laugh a little harder at this, and Athos hears a horrified choking noise trickle out past his own lips. By the time the countdown gets to three, he feels the familiar twinge of excitement and nerves that comes with every drift. Aramis is like an old sweater he’s worn around for years, but there’s still always something visceral about having the man in his head. He assumes it’s because he’s so bloody dreadful at conveying his feelings out loud, but it’s also simply the knowledge that he trusts him implicitly, there among the worst of his memories and the best. He trusts Porthos, too. 

Even after everything, he’s more worried for Porthos than he is for himself.

A couple of years ago, it would’ve been an entirely different story. His dark past doesn’t haunt him nearly as much anymore, and he knows it’s because of them that he can see beyond his mistakes to the good he’s done, the good he intends to keep doing until there’s nothing left to fight for anymore.

“ _One_.”

The neural handshake initiates with a frantic swirl of memory and light, as it always does, only now it seems fuller, filled to the brim and overflowing into the current of Athos’ blood, into the stretch of his skin beneath his armour, into the thudding beat of his heart. 

A early memory of Aramis’ filters through first - the day his sister was born. His mother looking exhausted but blissful. His father pulling him tightly into a one-armed hug. Aramis pressing a nervous four-year-old’s kiss to the baby’s forehead. 

The sight whooshes away, replaced by one of Athos’ memories. He is coloring with Thomas. They’re on their bellies in Athos’ bedroom, the rug beneath them knocked askew by small feet and laughter. He hasn’t yet been drilled to keep within the lines, so both of their pages are chaotically awash in color. Thomas rips out his page and gives it to Athos, the grin on his face too large. Too sweet. Too damn adoring. 

In his rig, Athos swallows dryly and lets the memory run away, but not before he feels a burst of comforting affection from the two minds entwined with his.

An eight year old Porthos sweeps into view, a tiny blonde girl curled in against his warmth. They’re not supposed to share a bed, but Flea’s nightmares are back and the foster home’s heater doesn’t work. He practices reading out loud by flashlight, to help her go back to sleep. _You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose._

Athos and Aramis nearly chase this memory together, they’re so enamoured, but it trips away before they can cling. 

In place of a quietly narrating Porthos comes a slideshow of quicker images. Athos at twelve, learning to fence. The first time Aramis prays without his mother’s guidance. Anne arching beneath the brush of Athos' intoxicated touch. A split second image of Porthos’ mother looking weak and ill, but smiling so bright, it’s no wonder where he got his grin from. 

Then there’s Aramis hugging his parents goodbye, the last time he ever sees them alive. Porthos meeting Athos for the first time, grinning around the apple clenched in his teeth. Aramis stitching Porthos’ shoulder. Athos dreamily watching the other two sleep in a pile of blankets on the floor.

The rigs thrust forward and then back as everything clicks into place as it should.

“ _Neural handshake lining up nicely. Good job, boys. Now let’s put her through her paces._.”

The trio lifts the Trinity Titan’s arms and bashes her fists together. Inside the Conn-Pod, they’re smiling at each other and everything feels _right_. This is what they were always meant to be. This is where they belong.

It doesn’t last long.

Porthos starts to say something teasing to Aramis, gets halfway through a word even, but then Aramis is gone, replaced by a haggard-looking Charon.

Charon. It’s like a switch is flipped and suddenly they’re ripped from the silence of a solid handshake and deposited inside the Grizzly Moonlight, separated by more than the physical distance between them. 

Knifehead lands a flurry of brutal attacks as the memory jerks roughly into place. They can feel the pain in Porthos’ chest. His right arm is partially numb, down from his shoulder where the second stab burrows into the jaeger. Charon is shouting something from his left, spitting fear and fury. Porthos looks at him and the wave of bile from his childhood friend blasts across the drift without mercy. Then Charon is torn from the Conn-Pod in a screech of metal and sparks and blood. When his scream cuts off, Porthos is crying, howling _no_ and calling Charon's name. 

It’s too late. He’s chasing the R.A.B.I.T.

“Porthos! You have to let go!” Athos can’t help but shout over the rush of sound in the memory, between the damage to the Jaeger, the raging storm outside its hull, and Porthos’ grief. Distantly, he can hear d’Artagnan announcing that Porthos is out of alignment, but it instantly gets so much worse.

Porthos lifts his arms in his rig, engaging both hemispheres with only a thought and a twist of his hands. He thinks he’s taking over the Grizzly Moonlight, preparing to blast a hole through Knifehead by himself. Athos and Aramis are talking over each other now, trying to bring him back from the edge, but the cannon built into the Trinity Titan’s left arm begins to charge. It’s aimed directly at mission control.

In the memory, Aramis stumbles across the Conn-Pod and grasps Porthos by the sides of his helmet. “This isn’t real, Porthos! It’s just a memory! Knifehead is dead! You have to let go!”

Porthos looks straight through him, tears spilling silently down his cheeks as his face contorts in pain and determination. He’s one of only two pilots to ever solo a jaeger and the three-part system of the Trinity won’t stop him. Not when he’s in the middle rig and already meant to bridge the gap between right and left. Not when he clearly can see nothing but the tragic past. 

“ _Emergency shutdown has failed. I repeat, emergency shutdown has failed! His connection is too strong--_ ”

Knowing d’Artagnan will have to resort to extremes soon, Athos digs back into the memory and grabs both men by the back of their necks. He presses them all three together as tightly as he can manage with the Conn-Pod wrenching them from side to side. Aramis ends up jammed in under Porthos’ raised arm with Athos’ arms hooked around each of their shoulders.

There isn’t time to think too hard about whether this work or not. Athos can only hope there is enough of a link left to push Porthos out of this hellish memory and into a more pleasant one. His gaze meets Aramis’ worried stare. 

Thankfully, their connection is still as strong as ever and they pull Porthos with them as the Grizzly Moonlight shatters away. 

In its place is their room, startlingly calm in the wake of battle. It’s late and the lights are dim. They’re sprawled in various sitting positions on the floor with playing cards in their hands. 

Athos hadn’t had the focus to pick a specific memory, but he’s not even a little surprised that this is the one in which he and Aramis instinctively sought refuge.

Across from him, Porthos is leaning against the end of his bunk, long legs stretched out in a v-shape. He looks momentarily split between the terror of the previous memory and the easy affection of this one, and his fingers tremble against the cards in his hand. 

“Good God. Take all night, why don’t you?” Aramis teases. He’s sprawled out on his back, along the length of Porthos’ leg, and he lifts his eyebrows in that irritating way of his. Challenging. Always challenging. 

“Excuse you. I’m _thinking_ ,” Athos smirks. It’s easy slipping into this memory. But then, it’s not the first time he and Aramis have chased it. 

“You think too damn much,” Porthos murmurs warmly, snapping Athos’ focus back to his face. There’s a cautious warmth in Porthos’ eyes. He’s here now, fully in this memory, and that’s all Athos needs to sink into it himself. 

Athos huffs. “Fine, I raise you...one Crunchie bar. Only slightly dented.” He plucks the candy bar out of a bag at his hip and slides it into the center.

“How...the fuck?” Porthos’ face lights up at the sight, but Athos smacks his hand away when he tries to scoop up the chocolate. “Oi. I haven’t seen a Crunchie in years.” His laughing eyes skew suspicious. “Who’d you sleep with?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“It is a good question,” Aramis chimes in. He’s watching Athos now with curious eyes that are anything but innocent. 

Athos forces himself to ignore that look as his eyebrows push together in mock-offense. “I’ll have you know, I have other friends. Friends who do nice things for me without wanting anything in return.”

Barking a laugh, Porthos shoots an impish look at Aramis. “Bullshit.”

“I have to agree,” Aramis deadpans. 

Fighting a smile, Athos shakes his head and gestures at Porthos. “Are you going to call or not?”

“Hell, Athos, I’m not sure I have anything worth even _half_ a Crunchie,” Porthos grumbles.

After a pause that is as long as it is telling, Athos levels a heated stare at Porthos and voices the thought foremost in his mind. “...I’m sure we can come up with something.”

Shock widens Porthos’ eyes, and Aramis laughs in this taunting “oh-ho-ho” way that instantly makes Athos roll his eyes.

Porthos smiles, nervously flicking his gaze between the cards in his hand and Athos’ face. He’s trying to decide how honest to be. How much to say without misreading the moment. Eventually, he seems to settle on _fuck it, I’m just gonna jump_.

“Anything of mine is yours for the taking, Athos,” he whispers. His achingly honest gaze shifts to Aramis. “Frankly, that goes for you, too.”

Athos only allows himself a moment of hesitation - mostly to take in Aramis’ slow smile and the sense of deliverance that fills his friend’s eloquent eyes - then he surges across the floor. His knees send everything in the pot scattering, from a motley crew of coins to a new toothbrush still in its packaging. But all he cares about is pushing in between Porthos’ legs and working up the courage to erase the last bit of distance between their mouths. 

Apparently, he takes too long, because Porthos growls impatiently and wraps his hands around the back of Athos’ thighs “Carry on, then. You’ve come this far.”

His goading grin spikes lust, and an amused sort of irritation, in Athos’ gut. So he takes his time lowering his mouth and he works Porthos open with a leisurely slant of his head, before grazing their tongues together. Porthos makes a sound somewhere between ‘fuck’ and “guh” that delights Aramis enough to inspire a happy little sigh next to them. The next thing Athos’ knows, he’s being hauled into Porthos’ lap, his knees bracketing the ranger's hips. He can’t think to complain, and wouldn’t even if he could. It’s all he can do not to let an embarrassing whimper of need meet the greedy exploration of Porthos’ tongue.

He doesn’t know how long the kiss lasts, but it doesn’t really matter, since any length of time would fall under _not long enough_. What he does know is that Aramis sighs again, loud and dramatic this time, just as Athos is grinding his hips against Porthos.

“I’m feeling decidedly left out here. In case either of you even _care_ ,” Aramis complains.

Porthos breaks the kiss to rest his forehead against Athos’ throat and _giggles_ ; there really is no other word for it. The slightly high-pitched and more than a little breathless noise inspires a dizzying rush of affection in Athos. But instead of trying to catch that sound with his tongue, he glances down at Aramis with haughty appraisal.

“I suppose I should find out what all the fuss is about.”

“Oooh,” Aramis crows, tucking his hands behind his head with a devilish smile. He knows damn well his chest and arms are stretched out in a perfect display, oversized sweater be damned. “Just for that, I’m going to make you do all the work.”

Athos grins. He can’t quite help himself. The same can be said for the way he climbs off of Porthos' lap and straddles Aramis, hooking his fingers around the back of his neck and pulling him up to meet the fierce crush of his mouth. Aramis’ threat lasts all of two seconds before he moans and rucks his fingers up under Athos’ shirt, digging for purchase and kissing back with every ounce of skill he possesses.

Scooting down to stretch out on his side, flush against Aramis’ hip, Porthos props his head up on his hand. He gives them a few uninterrupted minutes and then, with all the seriousness of a man commenting on the destructive power of a kaiju, he says, “Keep each other busy a bit longer, yeah? I’m gonna eat that Crunchie.”

Athos and Aramis break apart, vibrating with laughter. It’s the first time Athos has laughed, really laughed, in years and he has to bury his face in Aramis shoulder to stop feeling like he’s going to float away. He’s focusing on the rise and fall of Aramis’ chest beneath him, and then the warm curl of Porthos’ fingers on the back of his neck, when the memory crashes into darkness.

The hard slap of reality is nothing but silence, cold, and the sound of their own breathing for a long moment. Then, d’Artagnan’s uneasy voice comes over the comm.

“ _Sorry for the rude awakening, gentlemen. The danger passed, but you didn’t seem inclined to rejoin us. The Marshal had me cut the power. How’s everyone feeling?_ ”

Athos and Aramis both look back at Porthos. There’s a sadness in his eyes and his smile is grim, but holding steady. _I’m sorry_ , he mouths.

Aramis shakes his head and reaches back with an outstretched hand. When their fingers entwine just at the tips, Athos smiles as reassuringly as he can. “We’ve survived much worse. Get us out of here, d’Artagnan.”

“ _You got it. Hold tight._ ”

They’ll have to answer to Treville, of course. And that talk is likely to be taxing. But Athos feels a settling in his heart - an unshakeable faith that the worst of the drift is behind them. 

Next time, it’ll be easier. Next time, they’ll be closer to whole.

And before long, they’ll be unstoppable.


	10. The Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys face Treville after their failed jaeger test, end up in a fist fight in the hall with someone who desperately deserves an ass-whooping, and find a little time to settle back into an OT3.

There's only so much imposed silence Aramis can handle before he starts to feel his skin itch under the strain of it. It's one thing lounging around with a book, Athos cleaning his armour nearby. Even better if there’s minimal clothing involved. But it's another thing entirely watching the Marshal pace in stony silence and then stand disturbingly still with his back to them for so long that the irritating whirr of the air conditioning starts to burn into Aramis' brain. He casts a stealthy glance towards the two men beside him, Porthos sandwiched between Athos and himself as if they instinctively sought to create a wall of protection around him.

The ghost drift is distracting, even as dim as it is. He can still feel Charon's poison, mixed with adrenaline and lust and a desperate love that is somehow both soothing and exhilarating all at once. But that only sharpens his focus on Porthos, who stares at Treville with a patient sort of dread. Aramis can't stop himself from inching closer, pressing in against Porthos' arm , but he resists pushing his luck any more than that. 

Well, at least until the silence starts to make him twitch.

Aramis opens his mouth, ready to launch into a determined speech, but Athos caves a split second faster for once.

"Marshal, you must understand--"

"Quiet. _When_ I want you to speak, you'll know.” Treville’s words are like a bear trap, snapping closed on their tongues. He doesn't turn around, so he misses the shock stamped across Athos' furrowed brow. The Marshal has never spoken to him like that, never even come close in their many years of mutual respect, and tension instantly boomerangs through the room as a result. Aramis awkwardly closes his mouth, but protective anger wells up inside of him as Porthos seems to shrink in on himself.

Treville heaves a breath and turns exhausted eyes their way, though he doesn’t quite look directly at any of them. "I need to speak with Porthos. Alone.”

“Sir--”

“That _wasn’t_ a request.”

Athos definitely bristles at that. Aramis can see it in the hard set of his jaw and how he presses his hand to the base of Porthos’ spine, like a lightning rod for all his carefully walled away emotions. 

_Oh, Athos_. Aramis feels pity for anyone who looks at the man and sees only the hard shell, when there is such a depth of feeling beneath it. He fights it constantly, of that there is no doubt, but really, who could blame him? His past is a checkerboard of loss and pain, self-hate and regret. But here he still stands, lending his steady presence to Porthos, who holds himself just a little taller again because of it.

Aramis gives up all pretense and covers Athos’ hand with his own. “We’d rather stay, sir.”

Sighing, Treville drops down into his chair and pinches the bridge of his nose. When he finally speaks again, it’s in a more compassionate tone, but still irritated at the edges, like he’s annoyed that the three of them can still bend him, even slightly, to their will. “At ease, rangers. I just want to talk to him. And it’s late, besides. Go get some rack and he’ll join you soon enough.”

They both shift on their feet, meeting gazes behind Porthos’ back then clenching their linked hands into the fabric of Porthos’ shirt. Porthos draws in a deep breath and raises his arms to squeeze at the back of each of their necks.

“Stop tryin’ to get yourselves in trouble on my account,” he whispers. “Go on,” he nods towards the door and gives them a little push in its direction. Athos still hesitates, so Aramis sighs and hooks an arm around his neck, pulling him along and finally out the door. Walking back to their room takes more time than it should, what with them dragging their feet and the intangible weight of their reluctance weighing on their backs. It’s unfortunate really, since they might have avoided the next part if they’d just been a little quicker about getting their hardheaded selves to bed.

“There they are!” a deep, grating voice shouts. “The saddest sacks in the entire Shatterdome, hog-tied to that piss poor excuse for a Ranger.”

Athos tenses under his arm and Aramis digs his fingers into the curve of his shoulder. Labarge stalks up to them, all bravado and impeccably bad timing, the twisted curl of his mouth fury-inducing even before he opens his stupid trap again.

“Bet you’re wishing he’d just kept crawling on the wall. Or maybe it’s you two who’re the fuck-ups, eh? Can’t even get your cowardly mutt to behave long enough for a bloody test run.”

Even if it weren’t for the ghost drift looming in the back of Aramis’ mind, he could have easily predicted the next few seconds. Athos snarls, vicious and bloodthirsty in an instant, and he lunges out from under Aramis’ arm to punch Labarge square in the nose. The sick crack of it breaking is weirdly satisfying, even if it isn’t Aramis’ fist causing the damage.

Labarge howls his outrage and dives towards Athos, fingers latching around his neck, blood oozing from his nose. Athos knocks his arms away, but Labarge laughs madly and bashes their heads together, knocking Athos back a few steps. Labarge rushes him again, but this time Athos uses the brute’s momentum against him, driving a knee into his groin. He drops like his strings have been cut.

“Porthos is a better man than you _will ever be_ , you pathetic piece of shit,” Athos spits down at him. He starts to reach down, likely to grab the gasping man by the neck and pull him back up for another blow, but Labarge falls backwards and kicks out. Unfortunately, his boot connects, and Athos’ already wounded knee gives, making him fall backwards with a quiet grunt of pain. Aramis catches him, wraps an arm around him from behind and pulls him a few more steps back before he can retaliate.

“Athos…”

It’s not that he doesn’t want to see Labarge bleed more, but they’re already under scrutiny, and Christ, _someone_ has to be the responsible one. Aramis really hates when that job falls to him. He’s terrible at it and it leaves an awful taste in his mouth. He’d rather watch Athos pummel the loudmouth into the floor.

“Let. Go,” Athos hisses.

Aramis digs his fingers in a little tighter, pressing in flush against Athos’ back, and brings his mouth close to the man’s ear. “Not that I don’t enjoy that tone from you under the right circumstances, but try to remember I’m on your side.”

“Done already, little man? Or do you need your pretty girlfriend to step in for ya?” Labarge is all teeth and insulted pride as he climbs to his feet and swipes a fist across his mouth, streaking blood from his nose out across his cheek.

Lifting his eyebrows, Aramis glares at him over Athos’ shoulder. “What are you, twelve? Go sleep it off, you neanderthal.”

“Go fuck yourself, sweetheart.” Labarge pauses, then sneers maliciously. “Or I suppose go fuck each other, since that’s all you’re good for anymore.”

Aramis hisses a breath out through his teeth and abruptly releases Athos without a word. 

He may as well have said _nevermind, knock his bloody teeth in_.

In the next breath, Labarge is struggling to block a series of calculated blows. Athos is all precision and too smart, too _eerily_ knowledgable about the weak points of the human body. Labarge gets in one punch of his own, to Athos’ gut, but he takes an elbow to the face for it. There are blood droplets scattered across the cement floor by the time Athos ends the fight with a hard jab to Labarge’s throat and a sweep of his legs. 

When Labarge is nothing but a choking, panting mess on the floor, Aramis links his fingers through Athos’ and kisses his bruised knuckles twice. “That’s enough,” he whispers against Athos’ skin, urging him through the crowd that has formed around them.

They walk back to the room in silence. The air-conditioned darkness inside should be a comfort, but it’s almost stifling with everything that’s happened in the last hour. Aramis forces Athos into a chair and retrieves his kit. Athos merely glares at some distant point on the wall as Aramis’ gentle hands swab blood specks from his hands and cheek.

“I’m...sorry,” Athos sighs. “I shouldn’t have done that.” He flexes his hand, dragging that self-hating stare of his up to Aramis’ face. 

“Probably not, but you won’t hear any complaints from me.” Setting aside the alcohol swab, Aramis cards a hand through the top of Athos’ hair and smiles crookedly. “Let’s be honest. It’s been four years in the making and the only thing we’re really disappointed about is that Porthos wasn’t there to enjoy it.”

A helpless smirk twists Athos’ lips, but it melts away on another, quieter, sigh. “I can still hear him.”

Anyone who hasn’t spent a great deal of time in Athos’ company - in his head, in his _bed_ \- might have gotten lost with this change of subject, but Aramis only leans against the small desk beside him and crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Charon.”

“Is it any wonder Porthos is so broken?” Athos whispers. 

“He’s not broken.” Aramis sounds more convinced than he feels, but he takes another breath and the next attempt is full to the brim with his own unshakeable faith in Porthos. “He’s _not_ broken. He’s bruised and bleeding, but we’ll heal him. And what we can’t heal, he’ll fix himself, in time.” He expects Athos to do his usually brooding bit, to drop his chin and sigh something noncommittal. But the ranger surprises him by simply nodding slowly and giving him a determined stare. 

“I know.”

Warm affection spreads through Aramis’ chest and he clasps Athos by the face. “I love it when you do that.”

Athos smirks, the worry in his eyes finally giving way under Aramis’ bright-eyed smile. “What, agree with you?”

“ _Yes_.” Aramis stretches the word out far longer than is strictly necessary.

Chuckling in the back of his throat, Athos snags Aramis by the collar of his long-sleeved shirt and pulls him down to his seeking mouth. What’s likely intended as a simple press of lips, a pact sealed with a kiss as it were, quickly shifts focus. Aramis would take full credit for that if he weren’t busy straddling Athos’ lap and opening him up with the expert use of his mouth. Of course, Athos is apparently determined to surprise him today. He hooks his hands under Aramis’ thighs and stands in one fluid move, depositing him on the desk without breaking away.

“You got off on that, didn’t you?” Athos murmurs against his lips, licking into Aramis’ mouth before he continues. “Watching me beat the hell out of Labarge…”

“ _God yes_ ,” Aramis groans. He hooks his legs around Athos’ waist. “If I hadn’t been worried about you getting a dressing down, I’d have made some rather embarrassing noises, right there in the hall.”

Athos smiles, small and devious, jerking Aramis closer to the edge of the desk so he can shove back in-between his thighs. “Embarrassment requires an ounce of shame, which I’m not entirely sure you possess. You fake it rather well, when necessary, but that is not the same thing,” he insists, eyebrows crookedly cocked. 

Before Aramis can argue that point with something charmingly tongue-in-cheek, Athos digs his thumbs into the inner curves of Aramis’ thighs, right at the juncture between leg and groin. It forces a breathless whimper out of him and Athos captures that sound with his lips, nips at it with teeth pressed into his bottom lip. Aramis releases his death grip on the desk to snake a hand around Athos’ neck, arching hungrily into the kiss with a muffled groan and his eyes clenched tightly shut.

They haven’t been quite like this in a while. That’s not to say they haven’t found comfort in each other plenty of times during Porthos’ absence. But it’s been a tender, _somber_ sort of affair more often than not, always with a bittersweet undercurrent. 

There’s nothing gentle about the way Athos touches him now. Nothing complaisant in the way he thrusts against him or in how he mouths at Aramis’ throat with teeth and tongue. When the desk slams against the wall and Athos imprints a hungry sound into his skin, Aramis gasps for breath.

“Good God...I’ve _missed_ you like this,” he chokes out against Athos’ temple, kneading his fingers into his scalp.

“I was just thinkin’ the same thing,” Porthos chimes in, from where he’s pushing away from a lean against the door. Aramis’ eyes snap open in surprise, then soften as they fall on their third. He thinks they should pull away from each other, that they should ask how it went with Treville, and perhaps Athos is thinking the same, since he stills at Aramis’ neck with a shaky exhale. Aramis gets as far as dropping his legs away from Athos’ waist, but then Porthos is there, crushing Athos between them with one hand resting at the base of Aramis’ throat and the other splayed across Athos’ belly, his arm wedged between them.

Athos sighs, sounding relieved in a way he hasn’t in over a year. Aramis doesn’t begrudge him that, though. He feels the same peace settle over him as Porthos strokes a thumb over the hollow of his throat and ducks his head to press an undemanding kiss to the back of Athos’ neck.

“Don’t let me stop you,” Porthos growls fondly.

Smirking, Aramis latches his free hand into Porthos’ curls and tugs him into a kiss over Athos’ shoulder, which earns him a pleased hum from the man sandwiched between them. “You know we’re not going to be able to concentrate until you tell us how it went.”

Porthos grunts wordlessly, smoothing a heavy hand up from Athos’ belly to his chest. “I’d rather you two told me about the party in the hallway. If I believed half the gossip I heard on the way here, I’d have to ask what Athos did with the bastard’s balls after he ripped them off.” 

Athos snorts at that and leans back into Porthos’ heat. “I knew I forgot something…”

“You really did give him a beatin’? You couldn’t have waited for me?”

The sulking tone of Porthos’ voice sets both Aramis and Athos to chuckling, but Athos takes advantage of Porthos leaning back to twist around and settle back against Aramis’ chest. “I am terribly sorry you missed it. But I’m sure there’s security camera footage.”

That makes Porthos lift his eyebrows and tilt his head, pacified. At least for the moment. But Athos has always been a terrible killjoy at times like this.

“What did he say, Porthos?”

With sinking shoulders, Porthos exhales and steps away to kick off his boots. “Nothin’ you wouldn’t expect. Asked me if I thought I could handle it. If I could honestly get back in the fight. Apologised for rushin’ the test.” He reaches over his shoulder to pull off his henley, leaving him barechested and barefoot in only dark grey cargo pants. Aramis watches him throw his shirt and socks in the laundry bin in the corner, tuck his boots away under the bunk. It’s all ordinary behaviour, end of the day normalcy, but Aramis’ mouth goes impossibly dry, anyway. It’s been so damn long since all of that deliciously muscled brown skin was slowly revealed in front of them that it almost feels like the first time all over again. Only Porthos is home now, and letting himself settle in, which is worth more than Aramis can even say. Instead of saying anything about it at all, he fists his hands into the back of Athos’ sweatshirt and tries to stay focused on the conversation at hand.

“And you told him that you _could_ handle it. That this was the worst of it. Right?” he quietly demands.

“I...I told him I want to be here. I want to fight. I _need_ to fight.” Porthos closes his eyes and rolls his neck. “Told him I haven’t had a decent night's sleep in fourteen bloody months so that might help, too.”

“If you think we’re going to let you sleep tonight, you are in for a disappointment.” 

Porthos freezes at Athos’ heated promise, flicks his eyes to the both of them, and then lets out a rumbling laugh. “You got all worked up in that fight.”

“You have no idea. But that’s hardly the only motivating factor.” As Athos pushes away from Aramis and crosses the room, the exhaustion in Porthos’ gaze blinks away, replaced in an instant with desperate hunger. Still, he doesn’t reach for Athos as he stops only inches away. Aramis can only assume Porthos is still fighting his instincts. _Why_ is the better question.

Aramis dismounts from the desk and rolls the chair over beside them, sprawling down into it with exaggerated grace. He takes a moment, watching the two of them stand there like idiots, staring into each others eyes, and then he rolls his own. Clearly, he’ll have to step in, or the sun will be up before they even get anywhere. 

“I think there is some restitution in order here,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Obviously, you can’t make up for a year in just one night, but you can certainly put a dent in _dues owed_.” Athos doesn’t look particularly pleased with his smirking contribution, but Aramis pats his hand down in the air, as if to say ‘just hold on a second, I know what I’m doing’. And he does, really. He knows Porthos. He knows how he thinks. As smart as Athos is, as secretly compassionate as he is, he can’t quite think the same way as someone like Porthos. Someone who wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Someone who had to drag themselves up from the streets, build himself up until he was a man he could be proud of - only to fall from grace by way of the one thing he never expected from himself: weakness. 

Porthos cannot believe he is still deserving of them until he is sure that _they_ believe it. He needs to know that yes, their trust in him took a hit, but it’s still holding strong. He needs to know that he is still theirs and they are still his. They still need him, respect him, love him. And none of that has anything to do with obligation in the face of war. 

Frankly, he needs something Aramis is all too familiar with. 

He needs _absolution_.

Now Aramis might not be the priest his parents wanted him to be, but he knows a thing or two about penance. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looks up at Porthos through his eyelashes. The look in his dark eyes is wicked, pure and simple.

“ _Get on your knees, Ranger._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ghost Drifting: "Pilots are said to find that their link remains somewhat active, though muted, after they’ve disconnected from the hardware." - From the Pacific Rim Wiki. It also always involves a bit of shared dreaming, which will come up in the next chapter.


	11. Apologies are Cheap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis and Athos officially welcome Porthos home, but they get a rude awakening the morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being 70% smut, 25% gratuitous fluff and angst, and only 5% actual plot.  
> <http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v720/panicstrickyn/Funny%20GIFs/tumblr_makyasbm3V1r0i4nf.gif>
> 
> I have zero confidence in my ability to write smut so I'm sorry if this is bad. We'll be back to dramatic action in the next chapter, I promise!

Porthos sinks to his knees with only the slightest hesitation, and really that’s only because he thinks about taking his trousers off first. But that wasn’t the order, and there’s something freeing in following Aramis’ demand to the letter. It pitches a wave of relief though him, spills it out over his skin. There’s a suspicious dampness in his eyes too - he doesn’t know what the _fuck_ that’s about - but he blinks it away. 

Apparently Aramis sees it anyway, or _feels_ it through the ghost drift, because he makes a small upset sound and slips off the chair to kneel between Porthos’ legs, wrapping his arms around him from behind. Porthos lifts Aramis’ hands and deposits lingering kisses to the center of each palm before laying them back flat against his bare chest. 

“ _Porthos_ ,” Aramis murmurs, pressing a kiss in between Porthos’ shoulder blades. He’s quiet for a second, as if he’s deciding exactly which thought to voice. There’s always a million things going on inside that head of his. Eventually, he smoothes his hands over Porthos’ skin and sighs feelingly. “You’ve lost too much weight. We’ll need to make sure he eats properly, Athos.”

Porthos hooks his fingers into the pockets of Athos’ trousers and lifts his eyes up the length of him, pulling him close with a saucy lift of his eyebrows. “Yeah, Athos. You should help Aramis make sure I put the right things in my mouth.” 

Aramis laughs long and low at that and Athos shakes his head, smiling with all the amused judgment Porthos has missed so damn much.

“Shameful.”

All Athos gets for his reprimand is a slow smirk and Porthos’ thumbs slipping up under the edge of his shirt. He rucks the fabric up a few inches and licks a quick stripe across the flat of Athos’ belly, just along the edge of his trousers. Athos hisses a breath in through his teeth. But before Porthos can decide exactly which sounds he wants to encourage from Athos next, he feels Aramis fist a hand in his hair and pull back sharply. It drives his chin up and his breath comes out in a rush, fluttering the strip of dark hair leading down from Athos’ belly button.

“Before we officially get started, I’d like to offer you a chance to confess,” Aramis says against his ear. 

“Aramis…,” Athos chides.

“I’m only trying to be thorough, Athos. If there’s anything our Porthos thinks we don’t already know, anything he feels we _should_ know before we welcome him home, then now is a good time to tell us, wouldn’t you say?”

Athos frowns down at him, but Aramis seems unaffected since he tightens his grip in Porthos’ hair and nuzzles in behind his ear. “Do you have anything you want to tell us, Porthos?”

“I…” Porthos swallows, feels the fingers in his hair loosen and flex, hears Aramis hum soothingly at the shell of his ear. A dozen thoughts tumbleweed through his mind, but only one wedges itself inside his heart. He could keep apologising for years, but he knows they believe he’s sorry already. Apologies are cheap if someone’s just gonna fuck up the same way all over again. 

He doesn’t say he’s sorry. What he does say is choked out on half a breath, rough and raw.

“I will never leave you again.” 

Athos makes a gruff noise and reaches down to clasp him by the face. At the same time, Aramis tightens his arms around him, murmuring Spanish against his back. Porthos only catches the words _ours_ and _heart_ and half a sentence he’s mostly convinced is filthy as fuck, but he doesn’t have time to be sure because Athos is hauling him to a full stretch, bending down to kiss him hard. He feels pulled in two directions, anchored and floating all at once. 

They’ve always been good at that. Giving him a home and making him feel freer than he ever has at the same time. With Athos claiming ownership of his mouth and Aramis’ hands painting circles lower and lower on his stomach, Porthos knows this is a promise he'll keep: he’ll never abandon them again.

He'll die first.

The next few minutes are a blur of clothes coming off and laughter, because Athos ends up awkwardly landing on his ass trying to get out of his trousers and kiss Porthos at the same time. Aramis suggests putting the mattresses down while he’s fetching something from his locker, but the other two simply growl in unison. Athos is already on his back, trying to free Porthos from his cargo pants without halting the biting path Porthos is marking down his throat.

“I do love when you two are like this, but our knees are going to hate us in the morning.” Complaining doesn’t stop Aramis from settling back behind Porthos and dragging his nails down the bent stretch of his back. Porthos hums a pleased rumble, partly because it feels good, partly because he knows it puts a smile on Aramis’ face, even if he can’t see it.

Porthos knows what they like. He knows Aramis is more than satisfied where he is, but that he’d trade places with Athos in a heartbeat. He knows that despite his dominant personality in everything else, and the fierceness of his foreplay, Athos is happiest being thoroughly fucked. It’s also when he’s the most vocal, not that that’s saying much.

And Porthos, well. Porthos can think of no place he’d rather be than sandwiched between them. Particularly now when his need is fourteen months wide and doubling him over, making him grind first against Athos with his trousers half-undone, then back against Aramis, who wastes no time slicking his fingers up with the lubrication he got out of his locker.

“Has it been all this time, Porthos?” he whispers against Porthos’ shoulder, curling his hand down under the loose waistband of Porthos’ trousers to slip a finger inside him. Porthos groans a yes and pushes back against Aramis’ hand.

“Why deny yourself when you had no plans to return to us?” 

It’s a serious question, and a hard one to answer under _normal_ circumstances, let alone between the slow glide of Aramis’ finger and Athos wrapping a hand around his cock. Porthos’ mouth falls open against Athos’ throat, panting his answer.

“I didn’t want anyone else.” It’s not the whole truth, but telling them he hated himself too much the first six months to even think about sex would definitely qualify as a mood killer. Aramis makes a thoughtful noise and adds a second digit, which forces Porthos to grit his next words through his teeth. “What’s that noise? Would you be happier if I had slept with someone else?”

“No,” Aramis says without hesitation. Then his voice turns quieter and he kisses Porthos’ back. “...But knowing you were alone for over a year is hard enough. Knowing you were alone and _untouched_ breaks my heart, Porthos.”

Porthos closes his eyes and Athos thrusts a demanding hand into his hair, grumbling at them both. “It’s usually my job to ruin the moment. Shut up and get on with it.”

“ _Get on with it_ ,” Aramis chuckles, resting his chin against Porthos’ shoulder, presumably to give Athos those ridiculous eyes of his. “You’re such a romantic, Athos.”

“Jesus. You’re still _talking_.”

“You forget I know what gets you both going. You don’t really want me to stop talking,” Aramis teases. His voice is smoke and his touch is fire, and Porthos whimpers helplessly, sweat prickling up at his temples already.

Athos rolls his eyes. “What I want is for Porthos to fuck me and yet you insist on _distracting him_.”

That sets Aramis to laughing again but they do eventually stop fucking about and finally start _fucking about_. Athos shoves Porthos’ seeking hand away and oils up his prick, his lust-harsh voice insisting he won’t wait any longer, damn it. He must know Porthos is about to say something about not wanting to hurt him, because he silences him with his mouth and rocks his hips up to guide Porthos inside him. Porthos’ broken groan against Athos’ lips shatters into two pieces when Aramis pushes into him at the same time.

“ _Shit_ ,” Aramis moans, somewhere around the middle of Porthos’ back. His hand against the side of Porthos’ neck should be grounding, but even that simple touch is too warm, too much on a _pile_ of too much after too long.

“Hold on, wait, fuck,” Porthos gasps. “Fuck, just. Give me a second.” 

Patient but wincing with need, Athos stills beneath him. Aramis does the same, even if being quiet seems to be too much to ask of the mouthy little shit.

“You know...we won’t...hold it against you if you can’t last, Porthos.”

Porthos can actually feel him smirking against his skin. His answering growl would be more threatening if it had any heat, but the rest of his body is burning up, so it’s really no surprise that there’s nothing left for his voice. 

“Does that mean I can move again?” 

Fighting to catch his breath, Porthos eventually nods. The ghost drift comes in handy one last time before it fades away completely - he and Aramis both drive forward as one and a three-piece groan breaks free of the trio. From there though, it’s more like Aramis is fucking the both of them. Porthos can only crush Athos under the sweating heat of his body and scrabble for handholds that encourage the quietest ranger to keen, but Aramis digging his fingers into Athos’ thighs with each thrust certainly helps the noises along.

In a satisfying bit of irony, it’s Aramis who falls apart first. The steady slap of his hips loses its rhythm and he starts cursing in more than one language. Porthos rumbles a laugh and clenches his ass, smugly enjoying the way Aramis bites into his shoulder for it. Aramis’ groan is so raw, it nearly finishes Porthos off with him, but he freezes in place, determined to bring them both before letting go.

When Aramis pulls free and collapses down onto the floor with a slightly mortified whine, Athos chuckles and lifts an eyebrow at him. How he manages to say “karma’s a bitch” without sounding out of breath is a question Porthos will have to ask later. He has more important goals at the moment, like shifting Athos’ leg to his shoulder and picking up the pace. He’s rewarded by Athos’ eyes going wide and rolling back into his head.

Aramis grins and drunkenly shifts to his stomach so he can take Athos’ cock into his mouth just as Porthos drives back into him.

“ _Oh God_ ,” Athos groans, immediately fisting one hand into the rebellious waves of Aramis’ hair. It’s a fucking gorgeous sight, Athos arching up off the floor with fever-bright eyes on Porthos and Aramis’ head in his lap. Porthos hooks a hand around Athos’ thigh, where it rests against his shoulder, and tangles his free hand into Athos’ fingers on top of Aramis’ head.

Predictably, Athos only lasts a minute or two like this before he whimpers Aramis’ name in a warning tone and spills into his mouth with a moan. It’s muffled against the back of his own wrist, but still loud as hell. Aramis comes up with the smuggest of smug smiles, licks his lips, and then yanks Porthos into a deep kiss. 

Because he’s a bit of a bastard, really. 

Any thoughts Porthos had about dragging this out just a little longer evaporate with Aramis’ tongue in his mouth and the taste of Athos lingering there. He comes with one embarrassingly graceless pump of his hips and a thick growl in the back of his throat, shaking full-bodied with the force of pleasure rippling through him. Once Porthos stops quaking like he’s going to rip apart at the seams, Aramis releases him and slumps back to the floor, smiling so wide it stops the frantic beat of Porthos’ heart for a split second.

Eventually, they do pull the mattresses to the ground, but not until they lay there for awhile, lazily touching each other and murmuring affection between tired kisses. Aramis cleans them all up with a damp towel and more kisses, to whatever stretch of skin pleases him at the moment. If he lingers over Porthos’ heart longer than anywhere else, no one says anything about it.

They fall asleep in one big cocoon of warmth, Athos curled around Porthos’ back and Aramis burrowed into the crook of his neck, their legs a tangled mess below. Porthos knows he’ll sleep better than he has in a year, but he forgets about the possibility of shared dreams.

Thankfully, theirs is a peaceful reprieve from the harsh dreams he had with Charon in the past. They’re in Aramis’ parents’ house - he recognises it from a picture of Aramis as a little kid, grinning crookedly with cake all over his face, put there by his sister, who hovers next to his chair with messy hands and her head thrown back in a shameless cackle. 

In the dream, Porthos is cooking dinner and Athos sits at the island with his chin propped up in one hand. Aramis sits next to him, rubbing a hand over his back while he watches Porthos move around the kitchen. They talk about everything and nothing, laughing and teasing for what feels like hours. Porthos sprays Aramis with water from the sink and Athos groans when this inevitably leads to a scuffle and both of them soaked. Aramis plants a big, wet kiss on him to shut him up. 

There’s a laugh trapped in his throat when Porthos wakes to a numb arm, hair in his mouth, and a hand dangerously close to his groin. Aramis is half on top of him, which explains the first two before Porthos can even force his eyes past _squint_. Athos is stretched out on his stomach, face half-buried below Porthos’ shoulder, arm flung down over him like he tried to give the ranger some breathing room but his unconscious body had other ideas. 

If Porthos were a better man, he probably wouldn’t even _consider_ rocking towards Athos’ hand, but he’s really not that good. He does restrict the urge to a barely there graze as he pushes Aramis’ hair out of his face, so that’s something. It doesn’t improve his situation, obviously, but he’s not exactly complaining anyway. He lays there for a long time, listening to their breathing and luxuriating in the calming rhythm of Aramis’ heartbeat against his ribs.

When the monitor on the wall turns red and the breach activity alarm blares through the room, it startles Porthos out of a cosy doze. Aramis blinks awake as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, but he does yawn loudly and wack Porthos in the chin with a stretch of his arms before he rolls out of bed. Unselfconsciously continuing the stretch without a stitch of clothing on, he punches a button on the monitor to silence the alarm. It still thrums through the complex’s audio system, but at least now it’s not unbearably loud in their small quarters. Athos is barely shuffling himself to some version of conscious when the words “double event” start flashing across the screen, painting a red shadow over Aramis’ shocked face.

“My God…”

“Please tell me that isn’t normal now and the Marshal just forgot to mention it,” Porthos grimaces, forcing himself to his feet to scramble for clean clothes. He was really hoping to get a shower this morning, but two kaiju through the breach at once kind of puts everything else on hold.

“This is the first time,” Athos frowns. He drags himself into the bathroom to splash water on his face and relieve himself while Porthos shoulders up next to Aramis to read over the details on the monitor.

“Armour?” Porthos says quietly. They’re still five down on the roster and chances are Treville won’t put them into the field the morning after their failure of a test, not to mention the business with Labarge, but fuck. The words _double event_ keep blinking on and off in front of their faces, the only light in what was the peaceful darkness of their room only a few minutes ago.

“Yes,” Aramis murmurs, turning towards his locker. “I think...we’d better prepare for the worst.”


	12. Double Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two giant monsters. Four giant robots. A big giant mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter feels a little klunky to me, but I've edited and edited until my eyes crossed, so I hope it works well enough.

Athos feels like something small and sharp is trying to carve its way out of his chest.

Mission Control is a mass of movement and noise around him. Like he’s a stubborn boulder in the middle of a raging current. 

d'Artagnan shouts commands into his mic as Treville paces behind him, issuing sharp instructions that are shockingly easy to pick over the din of screeching metal and screaming coming through the comm.

One Jaegar is being brutally ripped apart right this very second, but Athos only feels the slightest twinge at the loss of Labarge and O’Connor. It's not even sadness, really. Labarge was a menace and O’Connor was an arrogant twat. But nobody really deserves to go out like that. And they really can’t afford the loss. Two kaiju still rage unchecked, and now Constance and Flea are out there with only the Endo brothers at their side. They’re good pilots, just green as hell. Green against two category four kaiju. 

Might as well throw two five year olds into the Conn-Pod.

“Shit!” d’Artagnan shouts, banging his fist down on the console. It’s abnormal to hear him curse in front of Treville, but Athos has been thinking that word on repeat for the last ten minutes, so he can hardly judge. “Marshal! Nova Blackthorn’s electrical problem was more extensive than the engineers realised. She’s not ready for deployment.”

Aramis fidgets next to Athos. He’s likely torn between worry for those in the field and the tiniest bit of relief that technical difficulties mean Anne won’t be in a jaeger today. But then, Athos has always been childishly jealous of Aramis' once-upon-a-time fling with Louis’ kind, beautiful wife. Maybe Aramis is just anxious to fight.

Right.

Athos shifts his gaze away from Aramis to take in Porthos on his other side. He looks determined, but tense. The screaming has stopped, but the echo of it seems to rest in the frowning groves of his lover’s face.

Cursing quietly, Treville grips the console in front him and drops his eyes away from the screens overhead. It seems as good a time as any to remind the Marshal that he has another jaeger fit to deploy and three pilots, already armoured, standing behind him like an unbreachable wall. Athos steps up next to him.

“Sir. Get us out there,” Athos says quietly.

Treville turns fully to look at him and then at Aramis and Porthos, who square their shoulders under his inspection. The Marshal looks exhausted and torn between what he knows has to be done and what he fears will be the consequences. He’s always been particularly protective of the three of them.

“We won’t let you down, Marshal.”

Athos’ promise seems to tip the balance. Nodding tightly, Treville claps him on the shoulder just once and then he’s facing the console again. “d’Artagnan, order the Trinity Titan readied for deployment. And tell the jaegers in the field to hold out for reinforcement. If they can keep those bastards from storming into Hong Kong, do it. Otherwise, focus on bringing them down one at a time.”

“Yes, sir.” d’Artagnan glances at Athos and, for a moment, looks scared. No, that’s not quite right. _Tormented_. But he shakes it off and salutes the three of them with cheeky sloppiness and the saddest smile Athos has ever seen on his young friend’s face. “Kick some giant lizard arse, gentlemen.” 

Athos has just enough time to squeeze the back of d’Artagnan’s neck before sound erupts from the comms again. Flea and Constance have apparently engaged one of the kaiju with no shortage of colourful language, but they still sound impressively calm. Defiant Tempest has been a beautiful instrument in their hands this last year. 

But there’s no time to waste on pride. Athos swivels around as d’Artagnan punches buttons and relays status reports to Treville. Porthos and Aramis turn into step with him and the three speedwalk shoulder to shoulder through a mass of onlookers between Mission Control and the hangar. 

Just as Athos is about to climb into his rig inside the Trinity Titan’s Conn-Pod, Porthos grabs him by the shoulder, Aramis too, and he pulls them both into a back-cracking hug. Aramis is silent for once. Doesn’t laugh or tease. They both simply return the strengthening touch of their third. It’s over as quickly as it began, but Athos feels it like a protective second layer of skin as he locks himself into his rig.

They can do this. 

They might not be at a hundred percent, but they’re so much closer to it already that it comes as no surprise when the neural handshake locks in with perfect alignment after only the briefest flash of memories.

“ _Looking good, gentlemen. Now hold onto your important bits, because you’re getting dropped right into the thick of it._ ,” d’Artagnan warns through their helmets. It’s a risky move, and they don’t use it often, but now’s the time for it. The jaeger jerks violently as it’s pulled up through the roof of the Shatterdome and flown out over the sea. “ _Leatherback has some kind of electromagnetic pulse and he’s just taken the Fox Whirlwind out of the game. Be damn glad we had to piece together that beast you’re riding around in from dinosaur parts, so it’s analog._ ”

And _nuclear_ , Athos thinks, but it’s never fun thinking about the fact that they’re sitting on top of a giant reactor.

“What’s the status on Defiant Tempest?” Porthos growls.

“ _She was out of pulse range, so she’s still in the fight. Stay focused, you’re three minutes out._ ”

The Conn-Pod is silent for a minute, because what is there to say? One jaeger against two kaiju, one _digital_ jaeger that can be taken out any second, and there’s nothing they can do but wait. And hope.

“I forgot it was only ten in the morning.” Aramis’ quiet exclamation is perfectly timed with Athos taking in the beautifully sunny stretch of ocean on the monitors. It doesn’t look like a day for death and destruction at the hands of two monsters. It doesn’t feel like one either.

He can still smell Porthos and Aramis on his skin, for God’s sake. Still feel the warmth of their breath. Hear Porthos’ snoring in the cool darkness of their room. Christ, what a surprisingly welcome sound that had been.

But this is their life. This is war. The weather doesn’t give a damn and the kaiju are just as deadly, come rain or shine, reunion or separation.

“ _Sixty seconds to drop_.”

d’Artagnan’s announcement forces Athos back into the moment and he shifts habitually in his rig, readying himself. 

At forty-five seconds to drop, anxiety slithers through the drift. It’s faint. If it were a tangible thing, Porthos would be smothering it between his hands. Athos and Aramis don’t even need to share a glance; they send a wave of comfort and faith back at the man behind them in unison.

“When this is over, we’re all piling into that pitiful shower,” Aramis pipes up, his voice steady and full of love. Athos has never been able to figure out how he does that. But he has learned how to send that same feeling through the drift, and he does so now. Whether he does it with so much force that it rebounds back at him, or the other two are just that in tune with him, is anyone’s guess, but he can hear the stubborn smile in Porthos’ voice, fifteen seconds to drop.

“As long as we eat afterwards. I’m bloody starvin’.”

Athos smirks. “You are always hungry. It’s just a matter of figuring out for _what_.”

He can feel Porthos’ answering smirk roll through his head, and Aramis chuckles. He knows Porthos would laugh too, if it weren’t for his giant heart full of worry. 

At the count of one, the carrier harnesses break free, and the Trinity Titan plummets into the ocean, practically on top of Leatherback. The glowing organ on its back is dimmer than when they saw it last in the Mission Control monitors, but getting brighter by the second. Defiant Tempest blasts the kaiju with a pulse cannon, only to get knocked to the side with a meaty fist.

“Anyone got eyes on Otachi?” Athos asks as they instinctively leap the Trinity onto the monster’s back and pummel into the apparent source of its electromagnetic pulse.

“ _She made a beeline for Hong Kong. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was on a mission and this ugly prick is just a distraction_ ,” Constance reports through the comm.

The kaiju have never seemed all that intelligent. Brutal and unrelenting, yes, but not smart. Now two have come through together, one with a specific ability that is more deadly than any fist, and Athos has to wonder if Constance hasn’t hit the nail on the head. Perhaps they do want something specific. Worse, perhaps they’re learning. 

They bash twice more into the kaiju’s flailing back before it flips them over its shoulder.

“Go after her,” Athos half-shouts, once they’ve landed in a vicious collision of metal and salt water, sparks flying inside the Conn-Pod. “If he gets off another pulse, you’ll be dead in the water.”

“ _On it_ ,” comes Flea’s pained voice. Porthos tenses at the tone, and likely at the order that will send his childhood friend and ex running after a category four kaiju without them. Tempest looks like its taken a beating already as it is.

“Don’t get dead,” Porthos demands. “Keep ‘er busy and we’ll finish off your boy here, quick enough to double-team her.”

Flea laughs, feisty as ever. “Kinky. We’ll hold you to that.”

Athos resists the urge to shake his head at them just long enough for Tempest to turn towards Hong Kong. The jaeger is built for speed and agility, as much any jaeger can be, and it suits its pilots perfectly. In a blink, the massive robot is a couple hundred yards away, stomping through the water towards shore. 

With their attention no longer diverted, the trio releases the sword built into the Trinity’s arm and charges Leatherback. The fight goes on longer than any of them would prefer, but their connection is crystalised perfection. Each swing harmonious, each slice powered by one united thought. Fissures in the metal hull don’t phase them and the kaiju’s futile attempt to finish them off with one last pulse is a predictable failure. 

When the sword drives up through his chin and rips out through his face, Leatherback collapses into the sea with one last broken sound and a flicker of light dying out on his back.

d’Artagnan has been giving them updates throughout the fight, and now he adds a marker to their readouts and tells them to hurry. Tempest is holding her own, but Otachi is the largest kaiju any of them have ever faced and Hong Kong is paying the price.

“Tell them we’re on our way!” A burst of sparks follows Aramis’ shout, too close to his head for comfort. Athos flips through a few screens on his HUD and readjusts the fire prevention protocols until the Conn-Pod is blissfully normal again. 

Well, minus the puddles. And the cracks in the walls. And this frustratingly high-pitched whine coming from a busted hose somewhere above their heads.

“She’ll hold it together,” Porthos says. He’s not just talking about the Tempest. 

Athos squares his shoulders and the three men begin the trudge towards shore with fire in their veins. 

It doesn’t take long to catch up with the giant fight happening at the edge of the city. Defiant Tempest smashes a fist down on Otachi’s snout and fires a short burst of rounds from her chest that make the kaiju wail backwards. Unfortunately, the Trinity doesn’t reach the harbour fast enough to stop the beast from smashing its massive tail into the girls’ jaeger. It blasts through a row of short buildings and drags across the car littered ground.

Picking up two long, empty buses from the ground, the Trinity launches them at the back of Otachi’s head. The kaiju spins, roaring, and they crash together in a cloud of giant limbs and fury.

There’s a moment, though, after a few hits are landed by both sides, where everything starts to go wrong. Porthos is distracted, for just a few seconds. The Tempest isn’t getting up, and there’s so much noise over the comm that they can’t tell where Mission Control ends and the chaos in Hong Kong begins. It’s just enough time for Otachi to dig her claws into the shoulders of the Trinity, swing around with startling power, and launch the jaeger a dozen city blocks away.

It lands face first into the remains of a ten story building and the impact knocks the breath out of all of them.

“Shit. Shit. Sorry. I’m here. I’m here,” Porthos chokes out.

Aramis winces and Athos shoots a glance at him, confirming the pain radiating through the drift is because his rig has dented into his shoulder. There’s only a little blood, so he infuses the drift with a sense of calm determination. It seems to be enough, because Porthos’ link reading shoots back up to a hundred percent and they’re able to drive the jaeger to its feet with momentum.

As the Trinity Titan smashes back down the destroyed city street, Defiant Tempest leaps into the air and drives a long piece of metal debris through Otachi’s eye. Wounded screeching echoes across the ravaged cityscape, cut off by the Trinity’s sword stabbing into her throat. 

It’s not a kill stroke, unfortunately. The kaiju flails and knocks them both back, vaulting onto Tempest in the blink of an eye. It pins the Conn-Pod of the jaeger under its claws and crushes down, using all of its considerable weight.

The girls scream in pain. 

“ _Constance_!” d’Artagnan’s shout echoes through their helmets, terrified and helpless.

Without a spoken word, the three men in the Trinity rush the jaeger forward, driving the kaiju off its target. Now they’ve got _her_ pinned. And they drive their sword down into her chest and face, roaring as one voice, as many times at it takes until the monster sags lifeless beneath them.

“Lets be sure this one’s really done,” Athos suggests, quiet but deadly. They raise the Trinity’s pulse cannon and in a few seconds of charging, blast the kaiju’s head clean off.

Silence bleeds through the comm. 

And nothing, not even the very dead monster at their feet, is comforting about it.


	13. Time's Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovering pilots, a moment of calm in a shower, and Treville being a bad news bear. But a bad news bear with a plan at least. Kinda.

They use the emergency release to exit their rigs, despite the fact that they're not in danger and it's a major rule violation. Aramis is sure the Marshal will forgive them this transgression. Hopefully.

Not that Porthos cares.

Aramis keeps having to push Porthos' worry out of his line of focus because the ghost drift is stronger than ever and he'd rather not fall flat on his face as he crawls out of the Trinity.

He feels nothing but the faintest echo of dread from Athos. Which really isn't all that surprising. The man has years of experience at disconnecting from the ghost drift, and even more at throwing up a wall between himself and the world around him. It's as comforting as it is frustrating, really, because Aramis knows his own anxious thoughts aren't helping calm the more emotional member of their trio. 

The Tempest's hatch is bent out of shape, crunched like the rest of the Conn-Pod's hull. The three of them have to crawl in and then crouch through the wreckage until they spot the two unconscious pilots. Porthos makes a distressed noise and immediately fills their heads with panic, part of which seems to stem from indecision about who to check on first. Aramis solves the dilemma by nudging him towards Flea while he heads for Constance.

He's checking for a pulse when her eyes shoot open, wide and terrified, and she grabs a hold of his wrist hard enough to bruise.

"Easy. _Easy_. It's me, it's Aramis," he murmurs comfortingly on a wave of relief. Awake and strong enough to hurt him is good. It's great, really. He does a quick examination for major wounds and is pleased to see nothing but a landscape of cuts and bruises. Constance eases her grip on his arm, trying to look over at Flea.

"Flea. Help Flea. I think she--"

"Medical transport is on the way. Just breath for me, Constance."

“ _Constance?! Oh God, Constance, can you hear me? Are you all right? The medics will be there in two minutes!_ ”

Aramis smiles grimly at Constance as she answers her frantic sounding fiance - “please stop shouting, love, my head is pounding” - and he moves over to Flea just as d’Artagnan’s apologetic whisper cuts off. Presumably because he’s switched to a private comm. God knows the lad doesn’t simply stop talking when he’s upset.

“She’s breathin’, but she won’t open her eyes,” Porthos tells Aramis so quietly that he nearly misses the words altogether. He squeezes Porthos’ shoulder and settles down to his knees, trying his best to flood the ghost drift with comfort. 

Flea is definitely more injured than Constance. There’s a pool of blood edging out from under her body and her arm is twisted at an unnatural angle. Her breathing comes shallow and weak, but her pulse is strong under Aramis’ fingertips. Thank God, Flea is a stubborn one. Aramis jerks off his helmet to get a better look at her injuries, particularly the jagged piece of metal in her hip. It’s not as deep as it could be, so that’s good, but it’s definitely nothing he can help her with here and now, not without making the damage worse.

“Aramis…”

“She’ll be all right, Porthos. You have to believe that.”

Porthos looks less than convinced and he pushes Flea’s hair back off her forehead with a gentle brush of his gloved hand. Her helmet, Aramis finally notices, is across the Conn-Pod, dented beyond repair. He double checks her head for injuries and exhales quietly when his search proves fruitful. The helmet must have been knocked off before it was damaged. Someone will be getting an earful about shoddy suit locks, no doubt.

“Medical incoming,” Athos says. He’s been clearing a path to both pilots, so the four-person team comes crouching into the wreckage with less trouble. They shoo Aramis and Porthos away, and after some time, the women are carted out of the Tempest on stretchers. Noticing Porthos’ trembling beside him, Aramis links their fingers together. Porthos pulls their connected hands to his heart and squeezes.

“Come on,” Athos murmurs, resting a hand against the back of Porthos’ neck. “Let the doctors see to them. We need to shower and eat before the Marshal debriefs us.”

As curt as Athos sounds, his gaze is protective and pleading. Aramis can read the look in Athos’ familiar eyes with ease. Athos can’t do anything for Flea and Constance, but he can damn well take care of them. 

Porthos nods and Aramis smiles, weak but thankful, always thankful for Athos’ attempts to keep them balanced, to shelter them from this harsh world, even when he is hardly as strong as he pretends to be. 

He’s still thinking about that later, when they’re stripping off their armour, and the clothes underneath, and Athos pulls him close to look at the wound in his shoulder. The cut is superficial, but the bruise will be epic by tomorrow.

“I’m all right,” Aramis assures him, touching his cheek before turning to Porthos and repeating himself because he’s staring Aramis down with concern pinching the skin between his eyebrows. “It’s nothing a hot shower and a few days won’t cure.” 

They’re all still worried, of course. Not so much about Aramis, but _everything_. Flea. Two kaiju through the breach. The lingering sense of doom that has infected the Shatterdome for weeks and tripled in the last twenty-four hours.

But Aramis still smiles. Because Aramis is good at smiling. It’s a worthwhile skill to possess, just from the way Athos’ shoulders lose some of their tension and Porthos crowds the three of them into the bathroom with a motherly click of his tongue. 

The shower isn’t big enough for the three of them. It’s not really even big enough for _two_. But sharing such a compact space is exactly what they need right now. Athos surprises them both by taking the center and burrowing his face into the heat of Porthos’ chest. Apparently, it’s a good decision, because Porthos closes his eyes, rubs circles into Athos’ back and drops kisses onto the crown of his hair. He immediately looks more at ease and Aramis can only smirk at Athos’ wisdom. 

Porthos may be terrible at receiving comfort, but God is he good at giving it, and the act itself bolsters the ranger’s mood in seconds.

Warmed by the sight of them, Aramis washes Athos’ hair and then soaps up his body, only lingering on his shoulders and the small of his back, where he knows Athos aches after a mission. He doesn’t make any ‘old man’ cracks, not like he normally would. He _does_ push them into the corner so he can wet down his own hair, though, which gets him a chuckle out of Porthos, and that draws an echo out of Athos. 

Unfortunately, it also encourages a bit of a scuffle, Porthos swivelling to elbow his way back under the water and Athos grumbling as he’s forced up against the steel wall. Porthos muffles his complaints with an off-center kiss before wrestling Aramis for the shampoo.

“Come on, you greedy little shit. Hand it over.”

“Excuse you, I had it first.”

“Yeah, but you got to wash Athos’ hair and I want to wash yours,” Porthos pleads, dropping his chin to give Aramis wide, begging eyes. Aramis’ eyes flutter shut as a smile sweeps across his mouth.

“Well, if you insist,” he sighs.

Porthos has the best hands, this is just a simple truth. He lathers up Aramis’ hair in such a way that Aramis is convinced he could take a nap, right there, squashed into that tiny stall. He doesn’t, but he does rock back against Porthos’ massaging touch.

“Fuck, I missed this little stuff,” Porthos whispers, pressing a kiss to Aramis’ shoulder. Aramis looks over his shoulder at him and gets a sweet kiss to the temple for the effort. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Athos has moved on from his grumbling to wash Porthos’ back with gentle care.

If only they could stay here, like this. If only their friends weren’t in the infirmary. If only they could wake up in a world that wasn’t at war. 

If only, _if only_ , Aramis mentally chides himself. 

The brush of Porthos’ groin against his ass brings him out of his sad musing with a smirk. “Down, boy.”

Porthos huffs a laugh through his nose. “Too late for that.”

Aramis grins and pushes back against Porthos, shoving Athos back into the corner again. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Athos warns, his voice an octave lower despite his protest. “Treville is no doubt waiting for us and I’m fucking hungry.”

Laughing, Aramis turns and steals the soap back to get to work on Porthos, who’s smile is somehow wicked and wistful at the same time. Within a few more minutes, they’re all as clean as they’re going to get and the danger of touches turning sexual escalates exponentially.

“Out,” Athos grunts. When Aramis only smiles and nuzzles into Porthos’ neck, licking water from his skin, Athos shoves at Porthos’ back to dislodge him. “Seriously, _out_.”

Porthos shuffles Aramis out ahead of him with a snicker and there’s a bit more grab ass between the shower and the few drawers that hold the majority of their clothes, but they do eventually get dry and start to dress. Porthos hums warmly when he finds he still has drawer full of his old clothes. The smile Aramis gives him is probably just this side of moon-eyed, but that’s not exactly new territory.

Thankfully, they’re decent by the time the monitor blinks an incoming transmission and Treville’s stern face fills the screen.

“My office. Double time.”

“Yes, sir,” Athos immediately responds.

Chucking the torso of his armour over his shoulder, knowing it’ll need minor repairs before the next breach, Aramis follows the two men out and deposits it in the right hands on the way to Treville’s office. Everytime they pass a group of people, though, there’s an echo of the cheers they got upon returning to the Shatterdome. Claps on the back and salutes, colourful commentary and heartfelt gratitude. Under less tense circumstances, Aramis would have preened. As things stand, he only causes them to be a little slow in getting to their destination.

Treville is standing in the hatchway when they get there, arms crossed, frustration stamped across his brow.

“My apologies, Marshal,” Aramis mumbles guilty as they step past him to find Anne, Louis, and a bandaged Constance waiting within.

The three rangers don’t look like they really know why they’re here. Constance would prefer to be at Flea’s side, surely, and the other two weren’t even part of this attack. Louis always looks a little bored, which ruffles Aramis’ feathers more than he cares to admit. He gives Anne a smile anyway, unable to deny the fact that he’s glad she isn’t in Flea’s place.

The thought crosses his mind before he realises the ghost drift is still clinging to them and he shoots an apologetic glance Porthos’ way, but the ranger only flashes a weak smile and gives him a quick one-arm hug.

“All right, before any of you ask, Flea is stable,” Treville announces from the doorway. It seems deliberate, the way he says it where people in the hall can hear. He knows all too well how fast news travels in the Shatterdome. “She won’t be getting back in a jaeger any time soon, but she’ll recover,” he adds just before clicking the door shut.

Porthos grunts a quiet, heavy, “Thank fuckin’ Christ,” and Treville claps him on the back as he passes by. Once he reaches the front of his desk, he spins around and stares at each of them for a few seconds of silence. It goes on long enough that everyone starts to shift uncomfortably, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Well, everyone but Athos anyway. 

“We believe the double event is the beginning of the end. Every event that follows will be worse. Maybe three, then six, then twelve and so on, until there’s nothing left but rubble.”

With that bomb dropped, everyone in the room shoots little glances at each other and Aramis can’t help but be morbidly amused by how blunt the Marshal is at delivering horrific news, because really, his brain can’t even wrap around this information.

“We also believe they’ve been learning our weaknesses this entire time and that’s why they’ll start coming through bigger and in larger numbers. In essence, we’ve been dealing with their scouts, and their hive mind has allowed them to figure out exactly what they need to do to eradicate us all.” Treville sinks down on the edge of his desk and rubs a hand over his face. “We’re out of time, ladies and gentleman. It’s as simple as that. So we’re taking one last run at the breach with a nuclear bomb.”

This causes a stir, naturally. Every attempt to bomb the breach has failed. But no one says anything before the Marshal continues.

“I know, it hasn’t worked. But we think the increased traffic means the throat will stay open longer than it ever has, allowing us enough time to slip a nuke through.”

Another long moment of silence passes, as he watches them and worries. How he carries his heavy load has always been subtle, but to people like Aramis and Porthos, people used to loving a man like Athos, who is subtlety at its finest ninety-nine percent of the time, Treville’s burdened heart is as plain as the moustache on his face.

Porthos squares his shoulders. “What are our orders, Marshal?”

Treville’s mouth twitches, the faint edge of a proud smile appearing and disappearing before he speaks. “We have three jaegers left and one shot. I’m not going to lie to you. This is a last ditch effort with slim chances for survival. But I need you all to tell me you can do this.”

“The Tempest is destroyed,” Constance says.

“You’re taking over the Fox Whirlwind. It only needs some minor repairs and a full-scale reboot. The Endos, however, are too inexperienced for this mission.”

“I...I don’t have a co-pilot,” she grimaces in reply.

The Marshal stands a little taller. “You have me.”

“Sir--” Aramis and Porthos blurt out in unison. Athos’ brittle voice cuts in over their outburst.

“Marshal, you can’t. _You’ll--_ ”

“--Die? If we don’t do this, Athos, we’re all dead anyway. I can and I will co-pilot the Whirlwind. Don’t the three of you start doubting me now. Not now, you understand me?” 

Everyone knows Treville was the first of the only two pilots to ever solo a jaeger, and the cost of it was his health. The jaegers ran on poorly protected nuclear cells in the early days and he’d paid the price for it. He was warned that if he ever got behind the wheel again, the effort would kill him. 

But looking between Treville and Athos now, as they attempt to glare each other into bending, Aramis thinks if anyone can do this, if anyone can lead them on a suicide mission and somehow get them all back alive, it’s the man making Athos step back in line with only the sharpest of stares.

“Now, does anyone have anything _else_ they need to say?”

No one dares to open their mouths, though Aramis doubts his is the only mind that is spinning. Louis looks positively _grey_.

“Good. The science lab thinks we have twelve hours before the next breach. I want you in the hanger in ten. Eat. Sleep. Screw like it’s your last day on earth.” Treville points at the door. “Just do it all somewhere that _isn’t_ my office.”


	14. Remember and Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys visit Flea, run into a flustered d'Artagnan, and get some much needed downtime with the last battle looming over their heads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three new video games and a neverending cold = oh God, please don't make me focus on anything for more than two minutes. But! It did encourage me to plan out exactly what I want to happen with the rest of this fic and admit that my original plan to wrap it up in one chapter and an epilogue was unrealistic. So we're probably looking at three more chapters and an epilogue left to go.
> 
> On that note, this is a bit of quiet chapter, but I'll try to be quicker about the next one.

“Aramis.”

“Hm…?”

“If you don’t stop fussing, I swear to Christ, I’m going to clobber you with this bedpan.”

Aramis bows his head sheepishly to the patient who is staring him down. Her hand looms threateningly over the bedpan in question.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted to be sure you were well taken care of.” Aramis’ smile is all genuine concern and heartfelt apology, so it doesn’t surprise Porthos that Flea merely sighs and pats him weakly on the arm.

“They patched me up just fine, nurse. But thank you for caring. Now. Don’t you all have a suicide mission to prepare for?”

Athos lifts an eyebrow slowly, from where he’s leaning a hip against the end of her bed, and this stoic response seems to amuse Flea as much as it always has. 

“Word travels fast around here, de la Fère. You should know that by now.”

The use of that name earns her an even sharper eyebrow, but Athos’ smirk softens the look.

“It’s not a suicide mission,” Porthos grunts, more for her sake than his own. He knows how much Constance means to her and that was _before_ they started piloting together. There’s nothing quite like the connection the drift brings, for good or bad. Flea will feel the miles between herself and her partner when Constance pilots with the Marshal instead. She might feel worse, if worse should happen.

But it won’t, Porthos tells himself. It _can’t_.

“Whatever you say, love. You still have better things to be doing than sitting around here. Give me a hug and get the hell out,” Flea demands, holding her uninjured arm out. Aramis is closer, so he takes her hand and kisses it, like the giant dork that he is. Porthos smiles, because he can’t help it, and Flea meets his gaze. For a brief moment, their entire childhood, shared misery and shared joys, everything she knows about him and how aware she is of where his heart is now, seems reflected in her eyes. 

When the moment is over, she turns her attention back to Aramis for the gentle hug he gives her and she whispers something into his ear that Porthos doesn’t catch. Aramis nods, very serious in that moment. 

"You know we will,” he says quietly. Apparently satisfied, Flea shoos him away and gestures at Athos.

“You too, Grump. Don’t make me get out of this bed to chase you down.”

The surprise that flickers across Athos’ face at being included in this impromptu ritual is fleeting. He heaves an exaggerated sigh and comes around to Aramis’ side of the bed to give her a brief hug to the head. It makes her laugh, and Porthos loves him for that. 

Without saying a word, Aramis and Athos step out into the hall, giving Porthos and Flea a moment of privacy.

“Don’t do anything too stupid,” Flea whispers. She doesn’t quite meet his gaze, so he kisses her forehead before giving a cheeky reply.

“No promises.”

Her laugh is a little frayed at the edges. From pain and fear that she will never voice, no doubt. Porthos lightly headbutts her, forcing her to lock eyes with him.

“Don’t be a stubborn arse. When I come back, I want to hear what a model patient you’ve been, understand?”

“No promises,” she echoes back with a thin smile, her eyes just a little too bright.

Porthos chuckles grimly and smoothes his hand down the side of her hair, depositing one more kiss on the top of her head before he forces himself to shuffle out of the room in silence. His arrival at Athos’ side is met with a comforting grip on his shoulder.

Porthos leans into the touch just long enough to steady himself. He'd selfishly take more comfort, but they're in public and Athos has limits. He affectionately shoves them both down the hall instead.

Right into d’Artagnan, as it turns out. He barrels into the group for a round of desperate hugs that leave Porthos and Aramis smiling and Athos looking entertainingly awkward.

“Thank God. I was afraid you’d already be in your room and I’d get yelled at for interrupting.”

d’Artagnan looks nervous but his eyes are wide and full of gratitude. It makes Athos twitch even more than the hugging.

“I just wanted to thank you. Christ, _thank you_. I mean, that’s not even enough, but I needed to say it, anyway.”

“You have nothing to thank us for, d’Artagnan,” Athos murmurs gently.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I do! If it weren’t for you--”

Hooking an arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders, Aramis tilts his head close to give d’Artagnan an affectionate stare. “We didn’t do anything Constance and Flea wouldn’t have done for us.”

Porthos steps closer too, clamping a hand against the side of d’Artagnan’s neck. “And nothing we won’t all keep doin’ until this is over.”

Dampness wells in d’Artagnan’s eyes, but he blinks stubbornly and nods. It’s enough to verify that he knows the plan, even without him saying as much. Porthos can only imagine the fearful thoughts tumbling through their young friend’s mind.

“I know. I know. Thank you,” d’Artagnan whispers, mustering up a shaky smile. “Anyway, I won’t keep you. I know you need to eat and rest. Please just...let me know if there’s anything you need.”

“Well. We wouldn’t say no to you joining us,” Aramis teases. His timing is spot on as usual. d’Artagnan flushes crimson and laughs, shoving them both away.

“Anything but _that_.”

Aramis sighs. “Pity.” He follows the long-running joke with a soft smile and one last clap of his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Go to your fiancée, d’Artagnan. We’ll be fine.”

With that, the lad squares his shoulders, spares them all a final smile, and hurries off down the hall.

They grab a few trays of food from the mess hall on their way back to their room - the fact that the kitchen staff gives them the best of everything and even a few rare treats is both appreciated and discomforting, but they voice their gratitude all the same. 

Once they’re finally behind a locked door, Aramis sets down his two trays, collects all the available bedding in the room and makes a nest on the floor. The three of them settle down and start digging into the assortment of food with silent enthusiasm. Porthos is halfway through his third sandwich before he realises this is the first real meal he’s had since lunch the day before.

He’s still chewing when Aramis pushes aside the trays between them and crawls over, nuzzling his face against the outside of Porthos’ bent knee. “Porthos…”

“I’m eatin’.”

“ _Porthos_.”

Athos huffs a laugh through his nose and leans back on his elbows, presumably to watch how this plays out.

Porthos chews even slower and watches Aramis through narrowed eyes. “I need my energy.”

Rubbing his cheek over the top of Porthos’ knee, Aramis presses his face to the inside and mumbles a path down his thigh, eventually biting down once he gets halfway to Porthos' groin. Porthos jerks, nearly choking on the last bite of his sandwich.

“Goddamn it. Not gonna be much use if I choke to death,” Porthos coughs out on a laugh. 

With food no longer in the way, he tangles a hand into Aramis’ hair and pulls him roughly to his mouth. This teases a smug hum out of Aramis and he shoves forward, forcing Porthos’ legs to flatten to the ground so he can straddle his lap. 

A flailing struggle comes next. Because that’s how they are. Porthos rolls Aramis to his back but fails to pin the flexible bastard and Aramis ends up back on top after a few seconds of half-hearted - and _noisy_ \- wrestling. Athos makes another amused sound as Aramis locks Porthos’ hands to the ground with his own.

“That was embarrassing.”

Porthos looks back at Athos and growls, “Quiet, you. This was my plan all along.”

“Of course it was,” Athos smirked.

“It was! Best view in the Shatterdome, right here.” Porthos grins up at Aramis who smiles his flattered smile and sits up. Staring up at him really is the easiest thing in the world. That lean stretch of torso, pretty half-lidded eyes dark with promise, and his hair already looking post-sex messy. Porthos could look at him forever and never tire of it.

Then again, just looking isn't really his style. There’s a stretch of Aramis' collarbone that's exposed by the off-kilter collar of his t-shirt and Porthos reaches up to brush his fingertips lovingly across it like a kiss.

Aramis arches under the touch. “Admit it, you’re just lazy and you want me to do all the work," he smirks, slipping his hands up under Porthos' shirt.

“That is _slander_.”

Aramis cocks an eyebrow down at him.

“...Slightly accurate slander.”

"Mmhmm."

Porthos smiles somberly. "Sorry. I'm just so tired. And with everything--I'm just gonna need a week of sleep with you both curled up next to me to sort myself out."

The fingers splayed across his abs dig in as Aramis' face falls into a sympathetic frown. " _Oh..._ "

"Well played," Athos drawls.

It wasn't a lie, but Porthos still feels caught out. He snorts and flaps an arm back to smack Athos on the leg, since that's all he can reach. "Told you to be quiet."

"This from the man who always gets irritated when I don't speak."

Porthos can't really argue that point, so he just smiles crookedly and links his fingers under his head. Exhaustion is creeping back into his muscles, now that adrenaline and fear have stopped riding him like an ill-used horse. He breathes out quietly and lets his eyes drop shut.

Which is apparently a mistake. Aramis takes advantage of his guard lowering by curling his fingers into Porthos' ribs, right where he knows it tickles the most.

Snapping back to full awareness, Porthos squawks out an undignified noise of surprise and bucks his hips, nearly dislodging Aramis from his perch.

"No sleeping," Aramis commands. "Not yet, anyway."

Porthos' pout is one he's learned from Aramis himself, so naturally it fails spectacularly.

" _Please_. Put that away. If we're going to certain death, we're going completely sated on all counts."

There's no point in complaining about the certain death part. They both know how Porthos feels about being told who is and what he's good for, and that he'll go down swinging now that he's back and he’s sworn himself to them for good. He knows just as well that Athos accepts the probability of their death and won't fight it so much as push through it, just like he does with everything else. Athos used to welcome a self-sacrificing death, now it's simply something he considers inevitable. And Aramis, well, Aramis will pray for their souls, no matter what he says out loud. He'll pray to their bodies to, because he's a contradiction like that. They're all so set in their ways, but at least they're set in their ways together.

Still, Porthos opens his mouth to balk and Aramis smirks, waiting for it most likely. Athos surprises them both by abruptly scooting across the floor on his knees, grabbing Aramis by the back of his neck, and kissing him like it's his last chance.

"Mm, alright, now this I can work with," Porthos laughs, leering up at them. 

Aramis melts against Athos, squeezing his knees against Porthos' hips. He's making that little sound he makes when either of them are even slightly forceful with him. Part whimper, part moan - all needy, wordless begging. Porthos had almost forgotten what that sound does to his blood. 

When Aramis breaks the kiss, he stares into Athos eyes for a long moment. Long enough that Athos raises his eyebrows in silent amusement.

“Do I even want to know what’s going on inside that head of yours?” he asks, swiping a thumb across Aramis’ bottom lip, probably just to watch the way his lips part and his eyes flash.

“Oh, I think you do,” Aramis smiles. He doesn’t look at Porthos, only says very seriously, “Do you agree that Porthos used you quite well last night?”

Athos smirks. “Technically, it was this morning.”

Aramis rolls his eyes and lets loose an exasperated sigh, which earns him a quiet laugh before Athos answers for real.

“Yes, Aramis. I think Porthos used me to the best of his...fairly _extensive_ abilities.”

Smirking up at them, Porthos resists the urge to jump in. Under different circumstances, he would growl at them for talking about him like he isn’t right here, but he approves of the subject matter and he’s enjoying the lighthearted banter. The added bonus of Aramis rolling his hips subtly against his groin doesn’t hurt.

“As I suspected. Now, don’t you think it’s only right that you should use him in turn?” Aramis hums as if deep thought has gone into this line of questioning.

“Oh, I like where this is goin’,” Porthos chimes in with a filthy laugh. The comment is dual-purpose. On the one hand, he really is interested in whatever Aramis has in mind. On the other, he knows voicing his excitement will help Athos get over any qualms he might have.

And it’s immediately obvious how necessary the comment was, because Athos squints a glance his way, uncertainty scribbled in the lines between his eyebrows.

“Athos...we did say we were going to help him keep his mouth full.”

Porthos grins, slow and crooked, and Aramis gives him a conspiring wink in return.

Shaking his head, Athos huffs an awkward laugh. “How in the hell did I end up with you two?”

Porthos curls a hand around Athos’ thigh and tugs at him with undisguised lust in his eyes. “Come ‘ere and we’ll see if I can help you remember.”


	15. For Now, Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There be smut. And also, Anne being the leader she's meant to be. Not at the same time as the smut, just to be clear. (That's a different fic.)

Athos can’t bear to take his pleasure from Porthos’ mouth. Not in the way they’re implying. Any other day, it would be high on his list of favourite ways to shut either one of them up for a few minutes, but today is not the day for _taking_.

Still, Porthos’ eyes are full of trust and want and all the things Porthos is so good at expressing with the simplest body language. They're both ridiculously open, hearts laid bare in their eyes and on the tips of their tongues, while Athos struggles to convey even his strongest emotions without feeling inadequate.

If he _could_ put his feelings into words, he would tell them that they are everything to him. That the survival of the world will mean very, very little if they aren’t by his side when it’s over. 

Even the ghost of that thought leaves him feeling gutsick. 

Athos forces himself to shrug off his unhelpful inner monologue and he untangles from Aramis so he can move. He rubs his face against Porthos' outstretched hand, like a cat pressing adoration into its owner’s palm.

Porthos breathes out, and the reverence in that simple sound is a powerful reminder that lowering his guard with them has always paid off in unexpected ways. In ways that leave him feeling treasured far more than he deserves.

“You thinkin’ too much again,” Porthos sighs, sliding his hand along Athos’ jaw to curl his long fingers around the back of his head. He doesn’t tug, which shouldn’t surprise Athos. Porthos has always been exceedingly careful to judge the moment, and his strength is only used when it is blatantly welcome.

“I know.”

“I’d say talk it out, but it’s you, so…”

Athos smirks. “I know. I’m sorry. I…,” he trails off, sighing in disappointment (with himself, nearly always with himself) and he leans over Porthos to press kisses to all the parts of his face that aren’t his mouth.

Aramis, in his infinite patience, and occasional tactfulness, doesn’t say anything, but Athos can feel those dark-bright eyes on him long before he feels the gentle stroke of a hand down his back.

“We’ll do something else,” Aramis says, no judgment or censure in his tone. “For you, anyway. I’m rather set on what I have in mind,” he adds with a devilish smirk, and that in itself is a relief. Athos does not wish to ruin the mood. These are potentially their last private moments together and he needs them to be perfect more than he cares to admit.

Porthos rumbles an agreeable noise and chases after Athos’ mouth until he captures it. When he has successfully drawn muffled need from Athos’ throat, Porthos drops his head back to the floor and grins with lazy satisfaction. 

“Would you like to watch Aramis ride me into the floor?”

“Pardon _me_. How do you know that’s what _I_ want?” Aramis teases, curling his fingers under the waistline of Porthos’ trousers.

“Because I know _you_. And even if I didn’t, you’ve been grindin’ your arse against me for a good ten minutes.”

“Yes, well...fair point.”

Athos chuckles quietly and lays down beside Porthos, linking their fingers together to bring Porthos’ knuckles to his mouth. He bites down on one, to hear the sharp intake of breath if nothing else. 

“I would very much like to watch Aramis ride you into the floor.”

In the end, Athos doesn’t take his pleasure from Porthos’ mouth. But he does watch Aramis strip Porthos down until his skin is dark against the white of standard military sheets piled beneath him. He watches Porthos return the favour, with less teasing patience and more growling, and he watches Aramis squirm where he sits, his breathing progressively shakier with every sweep of eager hands. He watches Aramis slowly come unravelled, too, and that’s _before_ he fetches lubrication and Athos joins in long enough to ready him for Porthos’ cock, biting kisses into Aramis’ shoulder as he does.

 _In the end_ , Athos watches Aramis sink down onto Porthos, with his head thrown back and sweat already beading at his collarbone, and the contented little sigh out of his mouth is unsurprising to say the least.

Aramis takes his time, which isn’t a surprise either. No doubt he thinks he’s making up for being the first to break that morning. 

And judging by how Porthos whimpers and tries to hasten proceedings along with the upwards thrust of his hips, Aramis is succeeding.

Porthos rolls his head to the side and watches Athos with black eyes, in turn. Because God forbid Athos feel unincluded.

Athos makes a point not to touch him with anything but the scorching path of his gaze, which pays off better than he could have hoped. Soon, Porthos is growling steadily, rolling sounds across his tongue that range from demanding to needy and back again. In no time at all, he reaches to bury a hand down the front of Athos’ trousers and works him to the same frenzied pace Aramis has finally succumbed to himself.

“My God, you’re both so...so…,” Aramis gasps, unable to finish the thought.

Aramis at a loss for words is a rare treat. Athos tells him this with an off-kilter smile as he pulls off his own shirt, then shimmies his trousers and underwear down to mid-thigh.

Just like that, the pace drops back to impossibly slow, because Aramis’ fingers intertwine with Porthos’, coiling tightly around Athos’ cock. Sweat and the remnants of lubrication make the stroke of linked hands blindingly pleasurable, even if Athos weren’t already lost to Porthos’ fathomless gaze and the tiny keening noises hissing through Aramis’ teeth.

Porthos drags his free hand up Aramis’ chest, and Aramis pushes into that touch without a second’s hesitation, his mouth crashing to Porthos’ instantly. Their rhythm slips into unsteady, then recovers as Athos drives up into their grip and moans. 

Porthos breaks the kiss with a heaving inhale and Athos snags his chance at a kiss for himself, one that is just as fraught, if not exactly coordinated. Not that Porthos cares about skill. At the moment, all he really seems to care about is burying a hand in Aramis’ hair and matching the stroke of their hands to the insistent lift of his own hips.

Aramis manages to fight the unspoken demand for a quicker pace. God knows how he does it. Athos feels desperation clawing through his chest and can hardly see straight anymore. What he does see is Porthos lifting his head to sink gleaming white teeth into Aramis’ throat, and for a dizzying moment, they are haloed in golden light, clinging to each other. Breathtaking. Perfect. 

And _his_.

By God, if that thought doesn’t hurtle him violently into the abyss, then the way they both turn searing gazes on him at once surely does. 

Athos arches off the ground, feeling the evidence of his release against his overheated skin. He doesn’t cry out, but that’s because he’s bitten down on his lip as hard as he can bear. If he’s drawn blood, neither of them says anything about it. They only stroke him slowly back down to earth, and then drag their hands over him soothingly, as if they are reluctant to stop touching him just yet.

With the world coming back into shiny focus, Athos reaches between them and curls his fingers around Aramis’ cock. Aramis groans a laugh.

“You’re going to ruin my plan,” he whimpers petulantly.

“To outlast us both, I imagine?”

“That was the idea, yes.” Aramis is already fucking himself a little faster onto Porthos’ cock, and up, into Athos’ grip, with his breath catching each time Athos changes his pace to match.

“Mm. Then it’s rather unfortunate that I enjoy watching you fall apart ahead of schedule.”

Porthos laughs. “What he said.”

Aramis whines and latches onto Athos’ neck, pulling him up and over for a sloppy kiss. Athos braces himself on his free hand to stay there, their foreheads brushing together even as Porthos digs his fingers into Aramis’ thighs and drives up into him with more force.

“Keep your eyes open, Aramis,” Athos demands. 

Amusingly, Aramis does the opposite for a second, clenching them tightly shut. It’s probably the tone of Athos’ voice as much as the steady thrust of Porthos’ cock, but either way, he forces them open again soon enough. This close, Athos revels in the darkness of Aramis’ eyes and the way his mouth seems to be trying to form words. All that comes out is wordless sounds, strained to breaking. Aramis keeps one hand in Athos’ hair and the other claws at Porthos’ chest, twisting a nipple between his fingertips.

Porthos groans forcefully and Athos shakes his head. “Cheater.”

That reprimand just brings a smug smile to Aramis’ face. He slices a glance past Athos’ cheek to the man beneath him and twists a little harder.

“Fuck, _fuck_. Do somethin’, Athos,” Porthos chokes out.

Athos chuckles, and then delights in the way that low sound seems to swim through Aramis, drawing his whole body tight.

“I don’t know, Porthos. I think I’ve interfered enough. Perhaps it’s best to let nature take its course,” Athos drawls.

Porthos huffs childishly, but the sound disintegrates into a whine as Aramis wraps a hand around the base of his throat. Aramis smiles at the way Porthos' eyes flash and he pushes up on his knees, breaking their stride. Taking that as his cue, Porthos bends his knees, flattening his feet against the ground for leverage, and begins fucking into Aramis without pretense or teasing. Aramis isn’t squeezing - Porthos would be making different sounds if he was - but every thrust means he presses down on Porthos’ throat simply to keep his seat.

It’s more than enough to roll Porthos’ eyes back into his head. He comes with a ragged groan, his thighs trembling and Aramis grinning triumphantly above him. Athos can’t help but laugh again, particularly once Porthos glares at him.

“He’ll be impossible for the rest of the day now. It’s all your fault,” Porthos grumbles affectionately.

“So...business as usual,” Athos replies. With that as the only preamble, he shifts to his side and drops his head to swallow Aramis’ cock down to the base. The shuddering inhale he hears over his head, followed by a hoarse string of Spanish curses, inspires one of Porthos’ dirtier laughs. 

Porthos tucks his hands under his head and watches Athos bring Aramis to a shouting climax in record time. His lazy smile blooms into a toothy grin.

“Like I said, best view in the Shatterdome.”

Athos coughs out a laugh and backs up off Aramis, who promptly collapses on top of Porthos. 

“We should squeeze into a bed.”

“I need to clean up a bit first,” Athos grimaces, rolling to his knees and ditching his trousers in favour of tugging his underwear back into place. 

Aramis only mumbles something unintelligible and nuzzles his face into Porthos’ neck.

“Nu uh. Bed.”

Smirking, Athos moves into the bathroom and cleans himself up. He’s almost surprised by his reflection in the mirror. He looks...at ease. Sated is the word Aramis used earlier. There should be more fear in his eyes, anxiety, something. But he only looks relaxed and ready to sleep for as long as he can.

Porthos is dumping a squawking Aramis into a bottom bunk when Athos returns. 

“Yeah, well, you coulda climbed in yourself, brat.”

“And miss out on you manhandling me? I think not." Aramis flashes a cheeky grin and holds out his hands for Porthos, but he gets a faceful of bedding instead. He laughs, and Porthos joins in, with Athos smiling helplessly at the both of them. Before long, they’re curled up tight in a bed better suited for one, Aramis humming blissfully as he’s squashed between the two of them. Porthos sets an alarm for five hours, because there’s still stuff to be done, and they drop so quickly into a dead sleep that Athos hardly has time to burrow his face into the back of Aramis’ neck.

It seems like no time at all before the alarm is going off. They shuffle blearily to their feet and take quick showers, _alone_ to insure they stay quick. Once they’re dressed and Athos and Porthos are tugging on armour over their clothes, Athos feels the knowledge of what they are about to do creeping back into his awareness.

They must succeed. It’s the end of everything if they don’t.

They _must_ succeed. And they have to come out the other side as one or die all together, because there is no halfway. He can’t bear halfway. Not again.

Porthos must be practicing his mind-reading, because he squints at Athos and then slams him up against a locker for a kiss that leaves Athos’ knees giving out. 

Aramis herds them out into the hallway, eventually, though there are a number of minutes lost to kisses and teasing and promises for later. 

Whether later comes or not isn't the point.

“I’ll meet you in the hangar in ten,” Aramis says, heading off to reclaim his hopefully repaired armour. If it’s not done, he’ll need to scrounge up a new set, but something tells Athos the repairs were made a priority.

They linger outside the Marshal’s office for a bit, Athos isn’t even sure why. Comfort, he supposes. Courage. It’s timely in either event, because they overhear Anne and Louis speaking to Treville.

“--important that we have the jaeger in best form be the one to take the nuke, Marshal. I know you feel responsible for us all, for everything really, but even you can’t deny that the Blackthorn is in top shape right now.”

“Anne, you are one of my finest rangers, but--”

“But you don’t trust us with this.”

Treville’s sigh is audible through the door. “You know it’s not that.”

“It must be,” Anne says tersely. “Otherwise, there isn’t an argument strong enough. We should carry the nuke and you know it. You’ll be in a hastily repaired jaeger with a pilot you’ve never driven with before, and sir, you don’t know exactly what getting back behind the wheel will do to you. What if your body simply gives out before the mission can be completed?”

Athos shifts a look to Porthos and they both raise their eyebrows. Anne has never been one to be overly harsh, always kind and patient and understanding. But she sounds more like a leader than a mere soldier right now and it’s something to hear regardless of how much it stings.

The Marshal is apparently just as hit by this. He’s quiet for a time, but eventually they hear the tail end of his response as he paces closer to the door.

“--to admit it, but you’re right. It’s a risk. And this entire mission is already bogged down in risk. I’ll consider it.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The door swings open and Anne leads Louis out - he looked green before, but now he appears stronger, filled with purpose. He claps Porthos on the shoulder as he passes and Anne smiles warmly at them both.

“Headed for the hangar too?” she asks Athos.

He nods and offers his arm, because it seems fitting somehow. 

She just made the bravest offer she could make, simply because it was the right thing to do. Showing his respect and admiration is more than fitting. Anne’s smile brightens, and Athos can see what Aramis must have seen, the strength there, the _goodness_ in her. She takes his arm and they head for the hangar, talking quietly about anything that isn’t the next few hours of their life. Porthos and Louis follow closely behind and Athos can hear Porthos teasing Louis about his hair.

It almost doesn’t feel like a death march. Almost.


	16. This is Not the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ninon makes an appearance and there is surprise!Wedding fluff before everything gets angsty and dramatic (in the next chapter). Also, a sound-the-drums-of-war speech by Treville. Where I stole one line from the movie, so please forgive me for a lack of self-control.

Aramis pulls on his armour right outside of repairs, mostly because he doesn't care for hauling it across the length of the Shatterdome, and he cares even less if anyone sees him flailing about in the hall. His shoulder twinges with the effort, though, and he's reminded that he wanted to stop by the infirmary for extra gauze to stuff under the metal of his chestplate.

At least, that's what he tells himself when he peeks his head into Flea's room. 

The shock of finding her bed empty leaves him spinning in circles until he finds a medic to ask where she's gone. Unfortunately, the medic is clueless and the next two aren't any less in the dark, either. Refusing to go back to Porthos without a reliable answer, he narrows his eyes and aims straight for a fourth medic.

"Aramis, dear. Why are you wandering around the infirmary harassing people? d'Artagnan's waiting for you." 

Aramis spins towards the voice chastising him and his expression eases at the sight of Ninon with one hand on her hip and her eyebrows raised.

“What? d’Artagnan’s wai--I wanted to check on _Flea_. She should be in that bed, _right there_ , and she’s not and I can’t tell Porthos she’s up and disappeared without turning the entire Shatterdome upside down to find--”

“--She’s in the hangar, you worrywort. Which is where you should be.”

“Wait, what? She’s _wounded_. What the bloody hell is she doing in the hangar?”

Ninon sighs, moves around to Aramis, and hooks her arm through his. 

“You really need to keep up. d’Artagnan asked that we all take a moment out of our preparations and meet in the hangar. _Flea_ was carefully transported there and is under close watch. _You_ are the straggler that d’Artagnan sent several of us looking for. Now, did you get all of that or shall I draw you a diagram?”

Her cheeky tone is rewarded with a snort and, finally, the sagging of Aramis’ shoulders as he lifts the arm she curled around his to kiss her knuckles briefly. With a half a dozen doctorates in God even knows what, Ninon is easily the smartest person Aramis has ever met. And, one of the most intimidating. She speaks her mind at the drop of a hat, and he admires her backbone just as much as her terrifying brain.

“Forgive me. I am apparently not as quick on the uptake today,” Aramis smirks. He notches his head respectfully and gestures towards the door. “We better see to our clearly distracted j-tech chief, before he remembers there’s an intercom system that could have saved him a lot of trouble.”

Ninon laughs and they make their way to the Shatterdome without any further delays, picking up Simmons and Krantz - two command center officers d’Artagnan must have turned into messengers - along the way. Simmons gives Aramis grief for requiring a search party and Krantz says nothing, but Krantz never says anything if she can help it. Aramis teases Simmons back, about the time he hit on Krantz and all she did was stare blankly at him until he meandered awkwardly back to his work, and then they’re stepping into the hangar to a scattered round of “there they are” and “fuck, _finally_ ”’s. Actually, that second one might have just been Porthos, who stalks over with an ‘I know something you don’t know’ grin. Aramis narrows his eyes only long enough to get a laugh out of Porthos before he surveys the hangar for what all the disruption is about. 

That’s when he notices there’s a section of floor that’s been cordoned off. It has a few dozen chairs in it, which is strange enough, but there’s also a number of decorations - of the paper flower and repurposed jaeger lights variety. It takes Aramis a second, because he’s scanning the crowd for Flea and Porthos is nudging him in the side with an elbow as Athos steps up beside them. When Aramis sees Flea is carefully situated in a wheelchair next to a makeshift altar, with a bouquet of paper flowers in her lap, the lightbulb in his head finally flickers to life.

“Oh! Oooh…. _Awww_ ,” Aramis coos, flashing a bright smile at Porthos, who chuckles and nudges him to face front.

d’Artagnan stands in front of them looking adorably flustered. He's wearing his uniform, but with his ever present jacket, the short collar always flipped up. It's not even slightly within Pacific Corps regs, but it’s practically part of his uniform for how long Treville has been letting him get away with it. The only difference now is that its got a paper tulip boutonniere.

"Okay, okay. I know this isn't how this should be done, and in the hangar, for God's sake, and we don't even have real flowers because _real_ flowers take at least three weeks and a damn _helicopter_ requisition but--"

"d'Artagnan...," Athos smirks.

"Right, sorry, sorry. Anyway, so. I'm getting married. _We're_ getting married. And I planned on doing this right and asking you all over a nice dinner, but it's not like we have time for that. Constance doesn't even have time to change out of her armour and put on the dress she worked so bloody hard on--"

Porthos is wheezing with stifled laughter at this point, so Aramis squeezes d'Artagnan's shoulder and kindly interjects. "It's all right, d'Artagnan. You're not proposing...you _aren't_ proposing, correct? Because, while I love drama, that would be awkward. All things considered."

There's a predictably heavy sigh from Aramis' right and he takes time to spare Athos a cheeky smile. Thankfully, the teasing seems to jar d'Artagnan out of his nervousness. He laughs and ruffles a hand through his hair.

"Good grief. What I’m _asking_ is if the three of you would do me the honour of being my best...men? I guess that fits, right?"

"Damn," Porthos grunts. "I was hopin' you were about to ask Athos to give you away."

"That's traditionally the bride, dear," Aramis whispers loudly, as if he's a mother correcting a beloved child and not a fierce feminist who shakes off gender expectations at least three times a day.

"Well, yeah, but she's already been through this once. Maybe the pup wants a turn at bein' handed off like luggage." 

d’Artagnan makes an indignant noise.

“Fine and expensive luggage?” Porthos shrugs.

Athos actually groans, God love him. "What these idiots mean to say is that the honour would be ours, d'Artagnan." 

While Porthos and Aramis shoot smug amusement at each other, d'Artagnan attempts to light the entire hangar up with the brightness of his grin alone. “Yeah? You’re sure?”

“Of course,” Aramis smiles, looping an arm around his shoulders. “You didn’t really think the answer would be anything less, I hope.”

“What he said,” Porthos chimes in with a grin. Then his face skews calculating. “You got a ring?” At d’Artagnan’s excited nodding, Porthos adds, “Let’s see it then. No time to waste.”

The ring is handed over with slightly shaking hands and Porthos spares d'Artagnan a comforting smile as he holds it up to the light. Recognition flashes across Porthos’ face and he looks at d’Artagnan with blatant affectionate stamped across his features. “It’s a nut.”

d’Artagnan blushes and nods again. “A joint nut, yes. Retooled by hand to fit her...”

“You made a weddin’ ring out of a piece of a jaeger.”

“She’s a jaeger pilot! It made sense!”

“You giant _nerd_.” 

Athos hides a laugh behind a cough and Aramis grins, suddenly full of so much love for the people in his life that he’s amazed he hasn’t simply lifted off the ground and gotten trapped in the roof of the Shatterdome. People start to take their seats, though, and he feels obligated to be the one to nudge them all in the direction of taking their places.

“Shall we, gentlemen?”

Pocketing the ring with utmost care, Porthos pats d’Artagnan on the head and turns for the altar. “You’ll make a fine husband, pup. Better not keep her waitin’ any longer.”

Porthos doesn’t get to see the joy and pride that blooms on their young friend’s face, so Aramis takes a mental snapshot to tell him about it later. With a bit more shuffling amongst the guests, they all settle into place next to the altar, Porthos on the outer edge, Athos next to d’Artagnan, and Aramis in the middle. 

The ceremony is brief, but perfect in all the ways that matter. Constance and d’Artagnan stare sweetly into each other’s eyes with their hands clasped between them and an audience full of soft smiles. Aramis only disrupts the proceedings once. When Serge first steps up to the altar, and Aramis whispers a little too loudly, “Oh God. Please tell me I’m not the only one who thinks Serge being an ordained minister is the most amazing fact to ever fact.”

Naturally, Porthos huffs a deep laugh, but even Athos smirks so hard that Aramis is sure that only the man’s impressive self-control stops him from snorting right along with Porthos.

They eventually get to the ring part and Porthos grins, passing it along to Aramis, who hands it to Athos. Athos bestows it upon d’Artagnan like a squire handing off a royal sword in some grand ceremony. He doesn’t keep his head bowed, though. He can’t seem to help meeting the young man’s eyes and smiling at the bright joy he finds there. Flea has tears brimming in her eyes when she holds out a ring to Constance, and Constance steals a quick hug, gentle but heartfelt all the same.

When the kiss comes, there’s a whooping cheer that rolls through the audience, as well as an expected round of commentary (“Get a room!” and “Let her breathe, kid!” playing an important role.) Porthos throws stiff tradition to the wind and picks them both up in a tearful bear hug that makes them squawk and everyone else laugh.

Unfortunately, there’s not enough time for proper celebrating, but they still take a few minutes to mingle while rangers, engineers and maintenance staff alike give well-wishes to the couple. It’s d’Artagnan who’s a blubbering mess by the end of it but, to be fair, Constance isn’t that much better. She drops a half-dozen little kisses on his face before one last proper kiss, and then everyone stills as Treville climbs up on a scaffold to tower over them.

Noise and conversation slowly drops away as they all turn their attention to the Marshal.

“I hate to interrupt this moment, I really do. This…. _this_ is what we are fighting for. This is what we are protecting with everything we have left.” 

Treville looks at a loss as to what to do with his hands, and it occurs to Aramis that he’s never seen him in his armour before. Even with an edge of awkwardness, the Marshal looks the part of a distinguished hero in every way. Porthos scoots closer, and Aramis sneaks a peek to see that he has a similar look of reverence on his face.

Workers not in the wedding party have stopped toiling away around them and before Treville starts speaking again, he’s surrounded by upturned faces.

“This is _not the end_. We are as united a group of men and women as there has ever been on this earth. We will not fail. Because we are stronger than mere monsters who see us as nothing but insects to be exterminated. We are _one_ heart. _One_ mind. We _will_ save the world. We will save _each other_.”

Aramis feels pride and determination swell in his chest.

“I have more than just faith in you all. I have the knowledge that there is not one person in the Shatterdome that isn’t a hero already. Today, we end this war. Today...we cancel the apocalypse.”

A rousing shout rises up from the assembly, making the rafters and equipment around them rattle with the force of their combined conviction, the stomping of feet and the clapping of hands. Treville himself seems bolstered, taller. Perhaps he needed their faith as much as they needed his.

It’s a powerful moment, and Aramis instinctively links fingers with Athos and Porthos, squeezing tightly. They squeeze back in unison. Aramis doubts he is the only one who will hold this memory in his mind’s eye in the hours to come.

He only hopes that it is enough.


	17. Hail Mary, Full of Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last battle, for good or bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should never have started the "any talk through a comm is italicized" thing, but I'm too lazy to go back and change it all, so I stuck with it. Therefore, there's a shit ton of italics in this chapter. Forgive me.

A blood-pumping fight mix pumps through every speaker in the Shatterdome as Porthos follow Aramis into the Trinity’s Conn-Pod. He can picture the look of resignation on the Marshal’s face, even though he’s well out of eyesight. Treville could order d’Artagnan to turn it off, but he won’t. As hard as he can be at times, he knows when to let his people have what they need. Right now, they need ridiculous music.

And a little last second reassurance.

Porthos snags Aramis by the back of his armour and crowds him against the closest wall before he can climb into his rig. Both of their helmets hit the floor with a clank.

"Oh. Hmmm," Aramis hums, running his hands up the curves of Porthos' chestplate. "I have always wanted to do something unspeakably filthy in a jaeger, Porthos, but I don't really think we have the time."

“I know it’s hard for you, but shut your trap for a second.”

Aramis drops his mouth open and makes a noise that’s part indignant, part amused, and Porthos promptly smothers it with a gloved hand.

“He’s right. We really don’t have time for this,” Athos smirks. He sounds close, so Porthos flails an arm blindly behind him until he succeeds in hooking his fingers into the neck of Athos’ armour. One good pull, a twist of Porthos’ arm, and Athos ends up shoved against the wall next to Aramis.

Aramis’ eyes are pitch black in this dark corner of the pod, but Porthos can still feel the heat of his stare. It’s too bad they’re both right. Porthos drops his hands to his sides and smirks at the disappointment that flashes across Aramis’ face. 

“I just...wanted to say that there’s nowhere I’d rather be. I mean, the three of us naked on a private beach would be nice, don’t get me wrong. But this is...right. This is where we need to be. I’m just grateful the Marshal came lookin' for me when he did.”

It's not as sappy as he was afraid it would be, so that's something. Aramis still does that closed-mouth 'aw', head tilt combination thing of his, though. Even Athos looks softer around the eyes as he hooks a hand around the back of each of their necks and pulls them into a forehead-to-forehead hug. 

"Are you going to break our rule?" Athos murmurs.

'"I was thinkin' about it."

"I always thought the rule was stupid, anyway," Aramis sighs. He's got one hand pressed to Porthos' chest and the other reaches to tug at Athos' beard.

Still, nobody breaks the _No I Love Yous Before a Run_ rule. It's enough to just stand there, breathing quiet and close, connected by gentle hands and the steady press of armour to armour. 

When the music cuts off and d'Artagnan announces that systems checks will start in two minutes, they break apart with a few lingering touches and get in place, locking their helmets on as they go.

Halfway through checks, the Marshal clears his throat over the comm.

“ _All right, Rangers. We’ve gone over the plan three times, but if you still have any questions, now’s the time._ ”

“You’ve requisitioned good liquor, right?” Aramis says. “We won’t be toasting our success with cheap beer, I hope.”

Treville sighs. “ _Any real questions_...”

Porthos snickers under his breath and finishes up the last of his HUD checks with a few swipes of his fingers through the air.

“We know what we’re supposed to do.” There’s a smirk in Athos’ voice, but he sounds as respectful as ever anyway. That is until he surprises them all with a teasing addition. “...Just try to keep up, old man.”

Startled laughter ricochets across the comm from a half dozen sources.

“ _You’ll pay for that one. Later._ ”

“I’m counting on it, sir.”

The hopeful twinge in Athos’ tone clenches at Porthos’ heart, but it doesn’t get a chance to dig its nails in before d’Artagnan calls out a ten second warning.

When the neural bridge locks into place between the three of them, Porthos exhales loudly. The handshake feels smooth. Effortless. He waits for the fear to steamroll through him, but there is nothing but a certainty that they can do this. He can do this. For everything and everyone, he can be who he needs to be. 

He will not fail them. Not this time.

He’s still polishing that determination over and over in his mind as the Trinity is carried out over the sea and the rangers make idle conversation with d’Artagnan to ease their nerves. Halfway through a ramble about how much he misses pizza delivery, d’Artagnan cuts himself off and switches over to his professional voice to tell them they’re one minute from the drop zone.

It’s not the first time they’ve dropped so close to the breach. The early days were full of attempts to take the fight directly to the source. But it’s the first time the breach activity alarm has vibrated through their helmets seconds from getting dumped into the middle of the ocean.

“ _Shit, shit, shit_ ,” d’Artagnan hisses with feeling. “ _Triple event! Two fours and...and a five by the looks of it. Transmitting details now!_ ”

The screens in the Trinity fill with information as quickly as d’Artagnan is getting it. Height, weight, flickering images of breach scans showing their approximate shapes. The plan had required waiting for the next breach breakthrough, because the idea was that the throat would be open to let the kaiju through. But three kaiju as big as they’ve ever seen is still _three kaiju as big as they’ve ever seen_. They’ve never even gone up against a category five.

“ _The plan hasn’t changed_ ,” Treville says. Porthos listens for any doubt in his voice, but only catches a little of the Marshal’s fatigue. “ _Get the Whirlwind to the breach. Whatever it takes._ ”

There’s a chorus of quiet _yes sir_ ’s and then utter silence as the countdown to drop starts. Porthos reaches out across the drift, one last time before things inevitably turn chaotic, and presses everything he feels for the two men on the other end into that connection. The wave of emotion he gets in return is almost too much. Too sharp, too good. It’s everything they stand to lose.

But it’s everything they’re fighting for, too.

The Trinity hits the water with a massive splash and sinks to the ocean floor.

This is where things should get clearer, more focused. They have their plan. They know what to do. This is the battle they’ve spent years training for. 

One of the kaiju is crocodile-like, long and armoured and impossible to see in the dark depths of the ocean. It attacks before their systems can even warn them it’s right on top of them and it divides the three jaegers with brutal snaps of its claws and tail. The second kaiju pulls itself up out of the breach and it’s bigger, wider, but all Porthos can really see in the inky blackness of their screens is rows of teeth, flashing between two wide horns.

The battle that follows is nothing that they could ever have prepared for. 

Jaegers aren’t meant to fight completely submerged. They’re slow and cumbersome, while Raiju is clearly aquatic in nature and Scunner uses his four-armed bulk to slam and smash and destroy, deep depths be damned. Energy blasts light up the darkness and fists push through water. But it’s only a matter of time before the Trinity is pinned beneath Raiju, the Blackthorn is lying unmoving near the breach, and the Whirlwind is completely out of sight altogether.

In other words, the plan goes to shit pretty fucking quickly.

“Marshal! Constance!” Athos shouts, as they battle the sinewy kaiju snapping its jaws above them.

“ _Their comm’s are down_ ,” comes d’Artagnan’s shaken voice. “ _They’re a ways north of you and Scunner’s with them. I--I don’t..._ ” 

Raiju bites down on the Trinity’s head and shakes, violently rocking them all in their rigs. A hissing starts up in the pod, which is bad news on top of bad news. They’re losing air.

“ _...please hurry_.”

d’Artagnan’s request is nearly a whisper, but it inspires a fierce surge of adrenaline. They manage to break the grip of teeth and flip Raiju on his back, flinging out the Trinity’s sword in one sharp move. 

Trying to finish him off turns out to be a lot like trying to spear a bronco that’s determined to fling off its rider, though. The first two attempts painfully fail and the Trinity takes more damage, but the third catches the kaiju in the neck, halfway decapitating him in a downward thrust. He rears up, nearly dislodging them. Instead of fighting it, they roll with the motion, dragging the sword across the undamaged part of Raiju’s neck. With all the weight of the jaeger behind the move, they cleave through the rest of the beast’s throat, embedding the sword into the ocean floor. The kaiju twitches for a moment and then stills, giving them a few seconds to remember how to breathe.

“ _You’ve got the five coming up out of the breach in the next sixty seconds!_ ”

d’Artagnan’s warning has Athos checking their screens. “Blackthorn, what’s your status?”

After a few heart-stopping seconds, Louis’ voice answers, heavy and exhausted. “ _Alive, but damaged_.”

“How damaged? Can you hold off the last one while we get to the Whirlwind?”

Porthos feels like the pause that follows is too fucking long, but he resists shouting a demand for an answer. Eventually, Anne is the one to pipe up. She sounds like she’s in pain. 

“ _We can. But you better move fast._ ”

They don’t wait to see Slattern pull his category five size bulk out of the breach, but they can hear the echoes of fighting over the comm as they head for the Whirlwind. It takes some distance and scaling a small rocky mountain to find the jaeger rolling away from a bull-like rush of horns.

“The Whirlwind’s still fighting!” Aramis shouts.

“ _Oh, thank God. Please, please, just--_ ”

d’Artagnan’s pleading cuts off as they get close enough to the fight that the Whirlwind’s comm reconnects and Constance takes over.

“ _\--you hear me? I can’t last much longer. I can’t, I can’t--I hate to say it but I need a hand here, boys._ ”

“We’re here, Constance. We’re here,” Porthos tries to comfort her, even though there’s a taut bowstring of worry vibrating through the Trinity’s drift. 

She’d said ‘I can’t last much longer’. I, not _we_. 

The absence of the Marshal’s voice is a kind of silence that penetrates to the core. 

But it pushes them on, all the same. They fire submersible rockets from the Trinity Titan’s chest, causing Scunner to roar and back away. It’s enough to give Constance the edge she needs. With the kaiju’s attention on the Trinity, she flicks the Whirlwind’s chainsaw blade into place and slices it through the water. Scunner screams as the saw burrows down the length of his back.

The ground around them quakes with the sound. Fissures in the ocean floor crack wider, spewing heat. 

Constance drags the kaiju, still impaled on the Whirlwind’s chainsaw, over a fissure, and he screams again as volcanic steam boils the flesh beneath his armoured surface. Still, it’s not enough to take him down. The jaeger is flung off the kaiju with a surprising burst of strength and a eardrum-rattling screech. 

It takes them all a second to realise the screech didn’t come from Scunner. It’s Slattern making that noise. Apparently he’s calling for help, because Scunner roars back and clammers over the underwater mountain separating them from the other fight.

“Constance, the Marshal--”

“ _I don’t know, I don’t know. He could just be unconscious. Our systems are nearly all shot and I--Christ, I can’t feel my hands and my brain feels like it’s on fire_.”

Porthos knows the consequences of piloting a jaeger solo all too well. If they make it through this, she’ll feel a lot worse in the weeks to come.

“Athos…”

“I know.”

Porthos winces and opens his mouth to say something else, but a bark of feedback bounces through their helmets. Ninon comes over the comm, rambling. More panicked than any of them thought possible of her.

“ _It’s not going to work! It doesn’t, the plan! It’s not going to work!_ ”

“Easy, Ninon. Slow down and tell us--”

Aramis’ attempt at calming her seems to bounce right off. 

“ _The throat, it registers who or what is coming through! We--we managed to drift with--Otachi was **pregnant** and, oh for fuck’s sake, it’s not important. The breach won’t let a bomb through because it knows it’s not a **kaiju**. It will just close up and all of this will be for **nothing**_.”

Silence falls heavy at that revelation.

Constance is the first to break it.

“ _Get the Whirlwind to the breach, take a kaiju through with us._ ”

“Constance, no!” d’Artagnan cuts in.

“ _What other choice do we have? We’ve got one bomb and it needs to--_ ”

“ _We’ve got three bombs_.” 

Louis’ out of breath, clearly still fighting even as his trembling voice takes control of the situation.

“ _The Marshal managed to pull together a second thermonuclear bomb for the Blackthorn. Smaller, but it’ll do in a pinch._ ”

“ _And the Trinity **is** nuclear_ ,” Anne clarifies. “ _We’ve got **three** bombs._ ” A heartbeat passes. “ _And we’re going to set ours off._ ”

There’s a lot of shouting at that, but Anne raises her voice above the dissent. “ _Quiet! There isn’t any time! Constance can’t pilot her jaeger by herself much longer and we’re--_ ” Sounds of fighting cut off the transmission, only cementing what she didn’t have time to say, anyway. Constance tries to force the Whirlwind to its feet, but only makes it as far as kneeling.

Anne comes back, panting, gritting words out through her teeth. “ _We’re setting ours off. The Trinity can take care of the rest. You can handle that, can’t you, Rangers? You can ride one of these bastards into the breach and make sure it wasn’t all for nothing?_ ”

Sadness weaves through the drift. Porthos wishes he knew what to say to easy Aramis’ pain, but frankly, he doesn’t even know what to do with his own. The Marshal. Anne. Louis. Probably the three of them too, because it’s not exactly a guaranteed two-way trip, escape pods or not.

Athos is the one who answers her, because Athos is always the one who steps up when emotion threatens to cripple everyone else.

“We can do that.”

“ _That’s right. You can and you will. Now bunker down._ ”

“ _Good luck, gentlemen. Say something nice at my funeral, will you?_ ” Louis sounds shockingly chipper, as if this final moment isn’t tragic so much as mildly inconvenient.

“ _Oh, Louis._ ”

“ _What? We all know they’ll say something nice at **yours**. You’re easy to love. Even if I did a poor job of showing it._ ”

Anne is quiet for a moment, and then her voice turns soft. “ _You’re not so bad, dear. Turns out you’re one hell of a partner at the end of it all_.”

They can’t see Anne and Louis obviously, but there’s something about the silence that carries the weight of gentle smiles and hands reaching.

Sadly, the moment is too brief. Scunner and Slattern roar, trembling the water even this far away. Anne shouts one last warning and then the comms disconnect.

In the silence that follows, a brilliant flash of light and heat blows both jaegers backwards, ass over teakettle. Constance cries out. The men of the Trinity Titan join her. Even the jaeger adds its voice to the din, alarms ringing out as the blast damages systems left and right.

Eventually the ground settles, and everything dims. Porthos can hear Aramis breathing roughly. He won’t cry, not here, not now, but he sounds perilously close.

“Time to finish this,” Athos growls. 

Porthos grabs onto Athos’ anger and uses it as his own fuel. “Get your arse out of there, Constance. Take the Marshal with you.”

“ _I’ve got a rescue crew on its way_ ,” d’Artagnan says quietly. Porthos can’t begrudge the pup the relief in his voice, no matter what comes next.

“ _I...I’ll take care of him_ ,” is all Constance can get out past the hurt that threatens to overwhelm her voice. At least she isn’t so stubborn as to fight them on this.

The Trinity scrambles to its feet and returns to the breach, climbing broken ground and avoiding steaming cracks along the way. 

There’s a crater waiting for them. 

A crater, the burnt remains of Scunner, and what’s left of the Nova Blackthorn.

They don’t - they _can’t_ \- focus on the Blackthorn. They turn their attention, instead, towards the giant kaiju, spasming at the edge of the breach. Slattern’s size is likely the only reason he’s still even slightly clinging to life, but maybe it’s for the best. There’s no way to know for sure if the breach would still recognise his signature if he was dead.

Besides, they’ll _all_ be dead soon.

That thought floods the drift with purpose and the trio moves as one, grabbing the dying monster by the shoulders and pushing him out over the edge. As gravity takes over, the kaiju musters up a final ounce of strength and crushes the jaeger’s head between his clawed hands.

More hissing erupts inside the pod, sparks fly as they’re thrown harshly to and fro, and then Athos makes a broken sound before lapsing into silence.

“Athos!” 

It’s impossible to tell what’s happened from where Porthos rig sits. The drift isn’t any help, either. Aramis reaches across between the rigs and shakes the unconscious ranger, shooting a terrified glance back at Porthos when nothing happens but a roll of Athos’ head. 

“It’s alright. He’ll be alright, Aramis. We’ll get him ou--” Porthos cuts off, his eyes going wide as Slattern lurches in their grip and they have to focus long enough to finish him off. Thankfully, the throat of the breach has already opened up around them and they pass through as the kaiju dies.

Less thankfully, alarms begin thrumming through the Trinity. Porthos jerks his attention back to his HUD.

“We’re...running out of oxygen.”

“God help us,” Aramis hisses. He jerks an emergency release and Athos’ rig begins to fold up into the pod in the ceiling that will carry him back to the surface. With his heart in his throat, Porthos watches Athos disappear, wondering if it’s the last time he’ll ever see him. 

_Knowing_ it has to be.

Because there’s something else on his HUD that Aramis hasn’t taken note of yet. And Porthos almost can’t bear to tell him.

“I’m setting the core to overload,” Aramis announces. “Get ready to eject.”

“Aramis…”

A second alarm blares weakly; they’re losing power.

“Fuck!” Aramis has never sounded so frustrated and out of breath. “The override failed. We’ll have to do it by hand...before...before we run out of--”

“ _Aramis_!” Porthos snaps. 

He’s out of his rig and half climbing up in front of Aramis’. Brown eyes take him in, blow wide in Aramis’ startled face.

“Porthos, Jesus Christ, get back in your rig!”

“My escape pod’s malfunctioned, Aramis.” Porthos doesn’t gesture towards Aramis’ readout to prove it. That seems unnecessary and cruel. He only sighs and curls a hand over Aramis’ shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Porthos waits for that fact to reach Aramis’ oxygen-deprived brain. He waits, and they fall. And he _sees_ the exact moment when horror and grief and denial collide in Aramis’ eyes like a kaleidoscope of pain.

“Oh God...no. Nonono.”

“We don’t have time to fight. I need to set the override and you need to get out of here.”

“ _No_! I’m not leaving you! Don’t you dare tell me to leave you here, Porthos. _Don’t you fucking dare_.”

Porthos grabs Aramis by the sides of his helmet and thunks his own against it. “Babe, listen to me. I have to stay. There’s no way ‘round that. You...you have to go. There’s not enough air. Athos--You need to take care of Athos. And I need you to promise you’ll let him take care of you...even when he’s kind of shit at it.”

Aramis chokes on a sob, wrapping his arms around Porthos helmet and hugging so tight it hurts them both. “No. I won’t leave. I won’t--You...you _promised_.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Porthos wishes he could rip off their helmets and kiss Aramis goodbye. Instead, he does what he knows he has to do. He jerks out of Aramis’ arms. “I’m so sorry, Aramis. But I can do this. I _have to_.”

Lifting Aramis’ hand to his faceplate, Porthos distracts him with a nuzzle and the quiet rumble of his voice. “I love you both so damn much. Don’t you ever forget that.” 

As the words leave his mouth, he pulls the release on the side of Aramis’ rig.

“Porthos! No! Please, no! _Please, God, no_...” The rig ascends into its pod as Aramis flails an arm out for Porthos, then reaches pointlessly towards the HUD. Tears roll free and stream down his face. 

Porthos steps back. Stumbles, really. The lack of oxygen is taking over and he doesn’t even realise he’s crying, too.

Just before Aramis disappears out of sight, he cries out wordlessly and then sobs, “I love you, I love you. God, this isn’t happeni--”

The pod clicks shut and fires off.

Maybe the silence would be deafening, if it weren’t for the dual alarms pulsing through Porthos’ helmet, warning him he’s nearly out of time. Maybe he’d hear the rush of blood in his head, either way.

He has to shove the sight of Aramis crying, reaching, the image of Athos unconscious and unaware, into a dark corner of his mind. It’s the only way. He stumbles through the Conn-Pod until he reaches the core override. Dropping to his knees, he pulls the mechanism out of the floor and turns. A third alarm joins the others, as it locks into place, but this one is a welcome one.

With the jaeger’s automated voice counting down his time with distorted finality, Porthos climbs back into his rig. He’s not sure what else to do. Just sitting there, waiting for death, isn’t his style. But the electronic workings of jaegers had never been his thing. 

Still. 

His fists slam down onto the rig, then flap uselessly at the dimming HUD in front of him. When that does nothing more than he expected it to, Porthos leans forward and rips the shielding away from the control panel at his feet. He’s rewarded with sparks slapping against the fogged surface of his faceplate and he blinks until they die down.

He may as well be looking at the guts of an alien he _hasn’t_ spent half his adult life fighting. 

And yet…

Porthos digs his hands through the wires, careful but quick. His years as a thief come in handy at the strangest moments. But it’s his refusal to give up, now, when there’s no hope left, that lets him find the pair of wires that have been dislodged from their connections. There’s no promise it’ll do any good, but he twists them back into place as best as he can and snaps his head back up to stare at the barely illuminated HUD.

The green light that flickers to life in front of his eyes might just be the prettiest damn sight he’s ever seen.

With a whoop of victory and half a hysterical laugh, Porthos wedges himself back into his rig and yanks on the release. The laugh tries to fully form as the rig stutters upwards, but oxygen deprivation finally rears its ugly head.

The last thing he sees, before darkness closes in, is the blinking countdown of a nuclear core about to blow the breach to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This...is a bit of a mess. Sorry about that. Giant robot vs monster fight scenes, man. I hate you more than smut. I just had to _let it go_. 
> 
> BUT, after a little editing, I'll have the epilogue up. If you've made it this far, just stick with me a littlllle longer. ♥


	18. Epilogue: The Dawn Will Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of war. Or at least, a tiny, slightly sad/more than a little sappy, peek at it.

It’s not right.

The sky is so clear and so fucking _blue_ when Aramis’ pod opens.

He instinctively gasps for air, but it’s not _right_.

He pulls himself out of the pod, blinking through the wet mess that is his face. Athos’ pod isn’t too far away and oh, _oh thank God_ , Athos himself is crawling out of it. He looks scared and confused, his bright eyes meeting Aramis’ across the distance.

Athos doesn’t say anything, just rolls into the water and swims over to Aramis’ pod.

Aramis reaches for him, desperately snagging him by his armour and pulling him into his arms.

“Aramis…”

Pulling back at the hoarse timbre of Athos’ voice, Aramis takes in his face, the blood streaking down from his temple. There’d been so much going on in the Trinity, he hadn’t _realised_ \--

“Here, let me see--take this damned thing off.” Aramis unlatches Athos’ damaged helmet and then his own, before turning Athos’ face in his hands to get a good look at the wound gouged into his flesh. It’s likely not as bad as it looks, but Aramis feels tears threaten again, anyway.

“ _Aramis_...” 

A trembling touch of Athos’ glove against his jaw forces Aramis to meet his eyes.

He doesn’t want to be the one to tell him. He _can’t_ be the one to tell him.

But then, he doesn’t have to say anything. The ghost drift is sharper than it’s ever been and Athos’ face crumbles into despair as he turns his gaze out towards the water.

“I’m sorry. God, I’m so--I didn’t--I couldn’t--”

Athos’ grip on his jaw tightens and he swivels tearful eyes back to Aramis. “Don’t. Don’t do that, Aramis,” he whispers fiercely. He scoots closer, curling his arm around Aramis neck and tugging him in tight. Emotion claws at Athos’ throat, emotion he always tries so hard to avoid, but it spills up out of him when dozens of voices explode into cheers over the comm.

“ _They did it! They did it! The breach is collapsing!_ ”

It’s clear they can’t hear Athos and Aramis on the other end, but that’s probably good for now. Athos dissolves into silent tears and Aramis clings to him, rigid and shaking, trying to remember what it is to breathe without this excruciating pain in his chest.

It’s over.

They’ve “won”.

But it feels as if the world has ended after all.

Aramis draws blood from his lip with the bite of his own teeth. They should try to reach command. They should set off their flares. There are things to do, reports to give. The Marshall and Constance to check on.

They don't do anything but hold each other.

They're still like that, when Porthos’ escape pod bobs to the surface, and they freeze in place for possibly the longest second of their lives.

Shock gives way, though, quickly enough. It’s replaced with a burning hope that steals their breath as they throw themselves into the water. Athos gets there first, mounting the tail end of the pod as Aramis swims to the release hatch and pushes, watching as the top of the pod fires off into the water with a splash.

Porthos’ skin looks two shades off. Pale. Maybe even blue. Athos can’t think to ask Aramis, just pushes forward to check Porthos’ pulse with violently trembling fingers. Aramis climbs up on the side of the pod as Athos hisses through his teeth.

“It’s faint. It’s faint, but it’s there. Aramis…”

“I’ve got it, back up. Back up!” Aramis will no doubt apologise for the sharpness of his tone later, but for now his only concern is tossing Porthos’ helmet into the ocean and performing CPR.

Any amount of time would be too long in this circumstance, but it feels like Athos watches Aramis work for bloody ages. He grips the pod with white-knuckled hands as the air blown into Porthos puffs up his chest, giving the illusion of life. Finally, _finally_ , Porthos jerks and breathes in great gulping mouthfuls of air. Caught somewhere between overwhelming relief and breaking apart into tiny pieces under all the stress, Aramis very nearly laughs.

“Oh, thank God. You. _You_ \--damn you, _damn you, Porthos_. If you ever...if you ever do that to us again--”

Athos puts a hand on Aramis’ back, but really, how do you steady someone when you feel like you’re falling off a ledge yourself? He leans past Aramis to press his forehead to Porthos’ and closes his eyes, instead.

Porthos huffs and weakly wraps an arm around Athos’ neck, then Aramis’, pulling them into a hug that’s more exhausted than anything else.

“Hey...I held up my promise,” he sighs.

Aramis does laugh, then, thankful that temporary madness gives him something to do that isn’t blubbering. 

Though, to be fair, that part’s inevitable. 

Their smiling faces are all damp, and they’re bonelessly clinging to each other, when the rescue crew returns.

 

* * *

 

It takes three weeks, but they finally hold a proper funeral.

The Marshal should be dead, too, but he’s a stubborn bastard. No one cares to question this miracle, no matter if the doctors think he's living on borrowed time. They've been wrong before.

Treville gestures for Athos to push his wheelchair closer to the row of headstones. They’re surrounded by men and women for what seems like miles and it’s hard to tell where the Pacific Corps ends and the civilians begin.

His voice isn’t nearly as strong yet, it may never be, but the Marshal makes it carry as far as he can. 

“Today we honour those who gave their lives to save the world. Brave men and women who made impossible choices. Who fought with every last breath they had. And who succeeded, against all odds. They will be missed.”

Leaning forward, he hangs a medal over the nearest tombstone, and nods to Porthos and Aramis, who do the same for the rest. 

They could say more. Speeches could go on for hours. There’s certainly a wave of interest through the crowd, murmured words and tears of gratitude. But no one breaks the silence that follows.

It is enough.

 

* * *

 

“ _Well, don’t just disappear for months, all right? You still owe me a stag party_.” 

“You’re already married, you greedy little shit,” Porthos shouts towards the phone that rests speaker side up on the table. A woman’s cackle comes over the line and Athos smirks, from where he’s laid out on the wicker sofa with his head in Porthos’ lap.

Aramis steps around to the front of the sofa and leans over the phone. “You’ll comfort him in our absence, won’t you, Constance?”

“ _Oh, yes. Now that everything doesn’t hurt so much, I’m sure--mmm--I'm sure I’ll think of something_.”

“ _Ugh, wait until I’ve left the bloody room, at least_ ,” Flea groans.

Porthos and Aramis laugh, and Athos reaches for the phone, pulling it up to his chest. “That’s our cue to take our leave. We’ll catch up with you soon. Don’t find a reason to call.” Athos pauses, sparing an amused smile for the two men above him. “That means stay out of trouble, d’Artagnan.”

“ _Hey! I could say the same to you!_ ”

“You could, but you only threatened to, instead. Opportunity squandered, pup,” Porthos chuckles. 

“It’s okay, d’Artagnan,” Aramis coos, reaching over to steal the phone back. “The only trouble we’re going to get into is rolling around bare-arsed in the sand. For a week. _Minimum_. Annnd with that lovely mental image, ta-ta for now!” 

d’Artagnan gurgles his offense at Aramis’ mocking goodbye, but Aramis hits the disconnect button before words can actually form. He grins, carelessly tossing the phone over his shoulder. It lands with a thunk in the sand surrounding their makeshift ‘porch’. 

The house needs work. Weeks, maybe months, of it. But it belonged to Aramis’ parents and the beachside view is stunning.

It’s more than enough.

Aramis abruptly straddles Athos, who grunts because he’s expected to, and Porthos laughs, leaning over to capture Aramis’ smiling mouth with his own. When Aramis moans a bit too dramatically, Athos digs his fingers into Aramis’ ass. The moan pitches higher and Aramis breaks away with a scandalised gasp.

Well, “scandalised” is probably more accurate.

After lowering himself to bite a kiss into Athos’ bottom lip, Aramis wriggles off of him and stretches his arms over his head.

“Well, come on then. I did promise the lad we were going to be naked. Don’t make a liar out of me.”

He follows the statement with a waggle of his brows and turns to run out towards the endless stretch of blue, blue water, shedding clothes as he goes.

Porthos glances down at Athos and raises his eyebrows.

Athos raises his right back.

They tumble off the sofa in an awkward, laughing mess, shoving and pulling and stripping off clothes to the distant sound of Aramis’ enthusiastic cheers.

Out beyond the surprisingly tranquil ocean, the scene of so much that has changed their lives forever, the setting sun turns the horizon pink and purple. A small plane flies over ahead and the phone rings yet again.

The trio colliding together in the sand don’t pay either any mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, I actually finished this. Frankly, I'm a little shocked. Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ to everyone who commented and kudos'd. This was a rollercoaster to write but I loved it. I hope you enjoyed the ending, and that you'll forgive me for some of my selfish choices. ♥
> 
> (And for using a DA:I quote as a chapter title. *wobbles her nerd self away*)


End file.
